


Eldorado Canyon

by TerenceFletcher



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Case Fic, Castiel & Meg Masters Friendship, Civil War, DCBB, Dcbb 2017, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of religion, OldWest!AU, Team Free Will, Western, deaths of a few minor original characters, historical liberties, historical setting, hunting injures, mentioned deaths of minor canon characters, road story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-06 22:39:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 92,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12220374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerenceFletcher/pseuds/TerenceFletcher
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester are hunters. Finding new supernatural cases, solving mysteries, helping innocents to survive—things most ordinary people can barely even imagine—are all part of their daily routine. Life is sometimes easy, sometimes tough, but almost always dangerous. When they get their new appointment in Nevada, they hit the road without thinking twice.The only thing is—it’s the fall of 1861, the Civil War has been ongoing for several months, and the enemy is nearly invincible. In a world without cell phones and cars, the only gear the Winchesters have is their black stagecoach and precious Colt gun. And a weird local preacher who is trying to help them.





	1. The Gamblers

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thanks to my amazing beta and editor [undeadandinbed](http://undeadandinbed.tumblr.com/) who did a fantastic job on this. It could be another BB-sized fic about how lucky I was to have your help and how grateful I am for your edits and feedback, so I’ll just say that without you, it would be an entirely different writing experience. Thank you very much!
> 
> Thanks to DCBB mods Jojo and muse for running this great challenge and bringing so many nice people together—this was my first time and I never regretted signing up.
> 
> And thanks to Helius for an awesome art, please see it [here](http://orange-helius.tumblr.com/post/168057935743/illustrations-to-eldorado-canyon-by-terence-f-to).
> 
> * * *
> 
> Except for canon characters and supernatural stuff, most of the following is true. All geographical references have been taken from original maps dated respectively (so some state borders are very different from the present), all the mentioned personalities of the Civil War really existed, the events took place. However, although every attempt has been made for a proper research and setting study, there might be some historical inaccuracies for which I apologize. This story is a piece of fiction, and not a documentary of any kind, so please bear with me.
> 
> There are some Easter eggs which I’d be delighted to see recognized but it’s okay if they’re not. Just in case, there are endnotes for those who are curious. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> _Silver mining was the sole productive industry of Nevada._  
>  Mark Twain
> 
> _Yippie Ki Yay, motherfuckers!_  
>  John McClane (and Dean Winchester)

Bill Higbie, nicknamed ‘Buffalo’ for his remarkable strength and a short hairy neck, glanced at his cards. He had three tens and a queen—not the best combination ever, but sort of not-so-bad. With a certain amount of luck, these could win him a round, and Bill felt lucky today. It was Hank who dealt, Bill’s old buddy and companion from their former ownership of a saloon. Hank was the best dealer Bill had ever known, and there was no reason to doubt his skills now when they were both playing against a stranger.

It was going fine for about an hour. A pile of crumpled ten-dollar bills in front of Bill was steadily growing larger, and the stranger kept bringing out more and more money from the inner pockets of his brown leather vest. And now Bill was waiting for him to bet, but the stranger just kept staring at his cards, holding them pressed tight to his chest, like a shy girl trying to hide a stain on her dress with a fan. It looked almost ridiculous, as Bill had never seen a gambler so obviously cautious about someone sneaking a look at his cards. Folks he used to play with here in St George had never acted so stupidly dramatic. Bill would even laugh at that, if it weren’t for the stranger’s hands—tanned and strong, they seemed equally familiar with guns as with cards, and looked anything but funny.

“So, are you gonna say your word, mister?” Bill asked. “What’s the name...Parker?”

The stranger raised his head slightly, and his crafty eyes flashed green from under the dusty hat pulled low over his face.

“Robert Leroy Parker,” he smiled and turned a little, tilting his head towards the saloon entrance, “And the good fella over there is Harry Longbaugh.”

Bill followed his gaze. The ‘good fella over there’ was a tall, well-built man probably in his late twenties, although his cold, determined expression contrasted oddly with a nice-looking friendly face, and made him seem older than his years. Since the beginning of the game, he had stood leaning on the wall near the swinging doors and casually looking outside, as if ready to flee at any moment. He never said a word, and never took his right hand off the holstered gun. His whole quiet demeanor was looking somewhat deceptive, and Bill was sure this Harry kept an eye on every movement at the table, and would unlikely hesitate to fire. There was something weird about these two, but Bill couldn’t figure out what exactly. Whatever, it was taking too long already, and he tapped impatiently on the table.

“Well?”

Parker squeezed his cards tighter and smiled again.

“See and raise fifty.”

Bill played as long as he remembered himself, and he was sure his face wouldn’t betray his silent celebration—with all this acting, there was no way the stranger could have any winning combination.

“Fifty and call.”

Bill laid down his three and looked up. Parker took a moment, then laid his—two pairs of fours and threes.

“Looks like I beat the board,” Bill announced, banking the money. “One more?”

Parker nodded, surprisingly enough after having lost.

“Yeah.”

“You sure there’s something left in ya pockets?”

“More than you think,” Parker grinned. “Gimme the deck.”

He shuffled the cards and dealt. Hank took a brief glance at his hand and shook his head.

“Fold,” he said, mutely passing the game back to Bill.

“Fifty,” Bill bid. With a flush in his hand, he had nothing to worry about. He almost felt compassion for his opponent—dealing like that, he really seemed new to the game. “Parker?”

“Raise one hundred.”

Bill stared at him for a moment. Roughly, Parker had already lost about three hundred dollars, and such a bet was the last thing Bill could expect of him.

“It’s a gentleman’s game, Parker,” he said carefully. “You got the money?”

“I do,” Parker replied in a steady voice. “Wanna check?”

Bill hesitated. On the one hand, he didn’t want to take the guy’s word for it, but on the other, he felt like his distrust could cost him a bullet in the guts. He remembered his old man and his favorite saying for every uncertain situation, ‘If you don’t know what to do, take your time, and it’s gonna come.’ In the end, it didn’t help him, when he was shot dead by some drunk gunfighter firing so fast that no one around could take anything. But the old man was nearly eighty, and this was the first and the last time that his method failed.

“Driving a stagecoach pays so well?” Bill asked.

Parker flashed him a polite smile.

“It pays alright for a living,” he said. “We sometimes pick up side jobs to make it alright for other things as well.”

“Like what?”

At this, Parker raised his eyebrow. “Why?”

“Just curious.” Bill was telling the truth—he could hardly imagine any side job for a stagecoach driver.

“You’re asking me to tell you all the secrets, huh?” Parker chuckled reluctantly. Then after a pause, he said, “Well, we deliver things. Privately. Small parcels, books...Even animals. Once we brought a cat from Des Moines over to Kansas City. Two hundred miles of a nightmare, I tell you, a damned nightmare. The cat wasn’t sitting in the box or something, so it was just crawling everywhere inside the stagecoach. I was sneezing all the way, day and night. By the time we reached Kansas City, I had thought I was gonna die.”

“Because of a cat?”

“Yeah, these little bastards do this thing to me...Their hair. So after that, I told my buddy—I’m done with this. I’ll bring whatever they say, whatever they’re gonna pay us for, any bloody thing dead or alive—but not the cats.”

Bill burst out laughing. He felt easier now, as they started talking. The money he had won was gradually turning his mood from satisfied to peaceful. The dark saloon he knew so well that he could walk around it blindfolded, was quiet and felt like home with the smoking lamps lit for the night, and even the lousy whiskey Jack kept serving didn’t taste so bad. Bill sipped at his glass and glanced over the table. This Parker looked tough (Bill never misjudged those sort of people, fast and strong, and always ready to face trouble), but obviously didn’t mean any harm. At least not that night, chattering of his misfortune with cats. Bill giggled again at the memory, then asked, “And what about the horses?”

“Horses are fine. Nothing ever happened with the horses. Just the cats.” Parker shrugged. “Anyway, except for the cats, side jobs are a good thing.”

“You’ve got one now?”

“No big deal, just one box. We’ll drop by San Juan, then move on straight to Los Angeles.”

Hank raised his head but said nothing.

Bill shifted in his chair.

“San Juan?”

“Yeah, Eldorado Canyon,” Parker said. “You ever heard of it?”

“I have,” Bill said hesitantly. “And you folks better keep your asses away from it.”

Parker looked at him and squinted. “I can’t see why.”

“People talk...Um, people say, it’s not a good place to be.” Frowning against his will, Bill took another sip of whiskey and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “When you hear people talk like that, you gotta listen.”

“So what do the people say?” Parker asked with a usual ignorance of a stranger. “You’re not just trying to scare me away, are you?”

“I don’t care, man,” Bill said, “and I don’t wanna stop you. But people talk, they’ve seen men with black eyes there.”

"Black like midnight?"

Bill shook his head.

"Black like totally black."

“Oh. That’s weird,” Parker said slowly. He turned halfway and exchanged a quick glance with his friend, as if to make sure he had heard the story well enough. After a long silence, Parker asked, “And what do they do? Attack strangers?”

“No idea,” Bill said, looking Parker in the eye. “Never seen anyone come back from there.”

Parker met his gaze without a flinch. He took his whiskey, had a gulp and wiped his fingers on the rim of his hat.

“But there’s silver,” he noted. “A couple dozen of silver mines by the Colorado river. Maybe it’s just that. Folks are willing to get rich, black eyes or not.”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t think so,” Hank chipped in. “We had a man here, Calvin Jones. A good blacksmith, the best St George ever had. See that mirror frame?” He pointed at the back wall of the bar, decorated with a blurred mirror encased in a delicately forged iron. “His work. Great hands, but crazy about money. Greedy as a coyote, never happy with the money he got, always whining he couldn’t get his woman a nice dress. And then, when this whole silver thing started, Calvin claimed that it was his chance. Like, he’d heard some voice telling him to go and become a rich man, and promising he’d be lucky.” Hank scratched his cheek thoughtfully. “So a few months ago, Calvin took off. He left everything behind, his house, his woman, his kid. Said he’d come to pick them up once he’s settled over there, but he never did. His woman thought he’d just been hiding away from her with all the silver, and knowing him, I can tell you, it was very likely. So one day she hires my younger brother, and he goes to Eldorado to find Calvin.”

“And what happened?” Parker asked.

“Shit happened,” Hank said and spat on the floor. “My brother comes back, his hair is all gray, and he doesn’t say a word for a week. He is scared to death, and my brother is not one who gets scared all that easy.”

“The kid’s good,” Bill confirmed. “Just twenty, but really good.”

“All of us thought he went nuts,” Hank said. “He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t eat. Just drank all the time until the booze knocked him down.”

Parker frowned. “Did he ever speak again?”

“Yes. And when he started, first thing he said was that Calvin’s never gonna come back home. That he had a different family now. People with black eyes.”

After these last words, there was a silence—a tense, heavy silence that always follows bad news. Hank looked at the table, his fists clenched to keep in his undying rage. He was still furious about the stupid job that had nearly killed his brother, and Bill could understand that much better than the others. He’d thought of going to Eldorado himself, as Calvin’s grass widow was offering a very generous reward. He changed his mind only because Hank needed a reliable poker partner in St George.

Bill looked around. The saloon was nearly empty, just two men clad in clean woolen shirts like most future miners sat at the table in the corner, drinking silently, and a piano man was sleeping soundly, having dropped his head on the carved wooden cover. There was no one with black eyes here, and Bill dutifully praised God for this.

“Well, all right, we’re gonna see,” Parker said at last, finishing his whiskey. “We have a box to deliver and a couple of guns we know a thing about. Harry’s quite good with the guns, by the way.”

“Good luck,” Bill said. “You ever see Calvin, tell him he owes me a twenty.”

Parker nodded. “No worries, I will. Speaking of...You never made a bet.”

With all their talking, Bill had nearly forgotten about the cards. He checked his hand. The flush was still there.

“See and raise two hundred.”

“Raise three.”

“Three and call.”

Bill laid down his flush and looked up expectantly. With a mild shuffle, Parker turned out his cards. He had a quad.

“I’ll be damned,” Bill hissed.

“Take it easy, man,” Parker said. “That’s gonna be...” he paused, frowning a little, then chewed his lower lip, as if making some obvious calculations, “six hundred and fifty. You all good with the money? A gentleman’s game, right?”

Bill froze still. Hank was staring at the table, his mouth ajar.

“How the hell did you do that?!”

Parker looked at him very seriously. “I prayed.”

He was mocking them, Bill realized suddenly, mocking as if they were some stupid spring chickens. No prayer could change the cards in one’s hand.

“You were cheating,” he said.

Parker smiled cheekily, “Prove it.”

“Think you’re gonna get away with that?” Bill’s hand slid down and gripped the gun. “Think you’re so smart?”

“Actually, I do.”

He jumped to his feet in no time, a gun in his hand—a .36 Colt, the best gun of the time—as Bill could clearly see. He could even distinguish some inscription on the dark faceted steel of the barrel that was already up and aiming at his chest.

Hank rushed up, knocking his chair away. “You son of a bitch!” he snarled and drew a gun.

Now they were two against one—again—but it wasn’t a card game anymore. Bill and Hank stood on the opposite sides of the table, Parker was between them, closer to the door. It was clear now that his position was deliberately planned from the very beginning, probably, as well as the strategy of playing a fool. He was about ten feet from escape, the distance Bill himself would cover in just a couple of jumps, even under fire. Parker seemed no slower. The speed he demonstrated when pulling out his gun was astonishing.

But even as good as he was, he couldn’t fire in two directions at once. If Parker went for Hank first, Bill would have enough time to raise his gun and shoot him next.

Parker did not seem to care.

“I don’t want to shoot you,” he said flatly. “It’s my friend Harry who does. And right now he holds you two at gunpoint.” All his cheerfulness was gone, he wasn’t smiling or joking anymore. He just stared straight ahead, ruthless and cold-blooded. “I’ve told you he’s good, haven’t I?”

His voice, rather than his words, said he wasn’t lying. As Bill glanced sideways, he saw the tall guy was no longer standing idly. Both his hands were busy, with the guns aimed unmistakably at Bill and Hank. His expression, barely visible from under his long hair, had the same grim determination that Bill had caught in Parker’s eyes a moment before—an odd resemblance, considering they were not even relatives.

“Put the guns down, and nobody’s gonna get hurt,” the one named Harry shouted from the door.

“What he said,” Parker added, nodding slightly.

Bill stretched out and his fingers, then clenched his fists. The gun holster was just inches away. He knew he could be fast, the only question was if the strangers were faster.

But he didn’t have a chance to think any further. Hank mumbled a curse and before Bill could guess what he was up to, drew his hand forward and fired.

A cloud of dense stinky smoke spread out in the air, making everyone blind for a few moments. The shot came out incredibly loudly, and as the smoke dissolved, Bill realized why.

Hank wasn’t standing upright anymore. His whole body was crouched down like an old tree ready to collapse, and he was leaning heavily on the table, holding himself up with his left arm. His right forearm, bent at an odd angle, was all covered with blood. Hank was gazing at it stupidly, as if knowing there was nothing he could do other than to watch red drops of his own blood dripping slowly onto the table.

And what was very much worse, was that Bill felt a gun pressed to the back of his head.

He looked at Hank, then glanced desperately around the saloon. The two miners sat with their hands up, stiff like wooden dolls, and obviously not going to interfere. Bill was on his own, but he didn’t want to surrender without trying. After a brief moment of hesitation, he shifted slightly and stretched his right hand out, sneaking a reach for his gun.

“Don’t,” Parker’s low voice warned him from somewhere behind.

Something shuffled swiftly past Bill’s hip, and the next moment, his gun was sent flying over the table and landed right in front of Harry. He was standing much closer now—alive, intact, and clearly ready to fire again—and he instantly kicked the gun, using his toe, to the corner of the room.

Unarmed, not daring to move, Bill could only watch and breathe, and wait for his fate. Parker and his friend Harry (and Bill suspected these names were far from real) moved with the agility and precision of trained soldiers, and the whole thing did not take more than a second. Who the hell were these men, he thought, and what kind of fool was I to pick a fight with them?

“You’re too fast for delivery folks,” Bill said.

“The road is full of surprises.”

“So what are you? Outlaws?”

Parker chuckled. “Desperados sound better to me.”

It wasn’t a yes or no, but Bill didn’t care. He’d lost both the game and the fight, he had his partner wounded, and he was about to lose his money. Bill wasn’t even sure which item on this list made him the most sick.

“You bastards will pay for this,” he snapped.

“You’re wrong,” Parker pressed the barrel of the gun a little harder, making Bill tilt his head. “And you’re wrong twice. We’re not bastards, and we’re not the ones who are going to pay.” Keeping the gun at Bill’s head, he stepped sideways and grabbed the money from the table. Then he paused and tossed back one of the ten-dollar bills. “There…Get yourself another whiskey. A top-shelf one.”

With this, he finally put his gun down, spun on his heels and headed for the door without a hint of a hurry. The Colt in his hand was swaying in time with his steps.

While he was walking, Harry kept surveying the saloon and held both his guns up. He stood astraddle, his back to the entrance, and only moved when Parker strolled past the door. Harry turned to follow him, but at the last moment, he stopped at the doorstep.

“We’re not outlaws,” he said, “we just do our work.”

And before anyone could say a word, they were gone.

Still staring at the swaying doors, Bill hesitated, not sure what to do. Quite expectedly, his first intention was to rush after the strangers—he knew he could probably catch them up outside the saloon—but some vague feeling told him not to tempt fate.

“Let’em go, Bill,” Hank croaked. Now that the immediate danger was gone, he collapsed on a chair and started to wind his neckcloth around his injured arm. “The hell with 'em.”

“Hope they’ll see it soon,” Bill said with a reluctant sigh, giving up on the chase. “You all right?”

“Could’ve been worse.” Hank moved his wrist and winced with pain. “But that’s weird. He fired like he wasn’t going to kill me, you see?” He raised his arm and rolled up his sleeve to show Bill the wound, all bloody, but not very deep. “Just a scratch, and that’s from a .36.”

“You think he’d missed?”

Hank shook his head. “He couldn’t miss at ten feet. By George, Billy, no one can be that fast and miss at ten feet.”

Bill couldn’t believe it either.

“Well, means you’re lucky, then,” he said.

“I’m gonna be lucky if I never meet them again,” Hank griped. “Bloody deserters, why don’t they go fight Confederates?”

There obviously wasn’t an answer to that, so Bill said nothing. Hank went on muttering something, grieving for his mischief and the fight they’d lost. Bill gave up listening. He came to the door and stepped outside. The stagecoach had long disappeared into the early dusk, its wheels had left two deep furrows in the damp sand, its heavy load increased by Bill’s money.

On second thought, he doubted these two were deserters. They fought like soldiers, but they also played their game—their own game, whatever it was. They didn’t really look like outlaws either, and although reluctantly, Bill was keen to take their word for it. Side jobs, he remembered, they said they took side jobs. It seemed, these were the kind of jobs that involved saloon fights and narrow escapes, and as far as Bill had a chance to see, they were equally good at both. Well, Eldorado Canyon would not be such an easy exercise for them, as a saloon in St George.

Bill grinned and swayed on his heels. His mood, boosted by the anticipation of possible revenge, was finally getting better. He imagined the black stagecoach stuck somewhere in the middle of New Mexico or the Nevada desert, broken and abandoned, horses wandering around it. As he tried to picture the two dead bodies behind the wagon, he had to stop himself, unable to choose between Indians and black-eyed people—either possibility appeared very attractive.

Deep in thought, Bill didn’t notice that the pianist had woken up and raised his head to survey the saloon. His gaze moved slowly from the miners to Hank, then paused briefly at the cards scattered around, and at last stopped at Bill’s back. There was nothing special to look at so intensely, but for some reason, the pianist kept staring. In the dim, trembling light of the room, his eyes, surprisingly sober, seemed unnaturally dark.


	2. Back on the Road

They settled for the night about twenty miles away from St George, soon after an old road crossed the border of Utah and headed down to New Mexico, where the rocky plains of the desert were grooved by a winding Virgin river. It was fall, the water got so shallow that it was barely visible among the dry sage-brush, and it rolled over the stones with a mild gurgling sound. Everything around was deep gray—bushes, rocks, skies, and even the thick, sticky sand rustling underfoot.

The stagecoach was placed securely on a small flat terrace down the road, well-hidden from view. The horses, hobbled and freed from their harness, were left to feed themselves with bunch-grass, and their dark silhouettes looked mysteriously sharp against the night sky.

Sam stepped back from a square foot-by-foot hole in the ground that he'd dug and put the shovel away. Dean handed him a crunchy pile of sage-brush cut to fit into the hole, and Sam lit the fire. A moment later, a bright flame burst out, greedily eating the dried-up twigs.

They knelt side by side, spreading their hands in front of the fire. For a few minutes, neither of them spoke, then Sam rubbed his palms.

“Next time I’m playing, and you’re standing by the door,” he said.

“I play better,” Dean snorted. He reached out to pat Sam on the shoulder, but Sam swayed away from him. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? Don’t you see yourself?"

"No."

Sam turned to look Dean in the eye. "Well, I'll tell you. They’ve nailed you for cheating, they were furious, and they fired at us. They nearly killed us, Dean!”

“They weren’t even close," Dean shrugged. "And we got the money.”

Sam bent his head down in disagreement. "We shouldn't be so reckless. We are after God knows what, and if you go on picking a quarrel with every gambler on the road, we'll never even reach the place." For a while, he was silent, then sighed and said, "We've done eight hundred miles already, can't you hold on for a hundred more?"

Dean killed a mosquito on his cheek.

"All right."

"All right?" Sam repeated. "All right—what?"

"I'll hold on."

It was their tenth day on the road, all the long way from Nebraska, where Samuel Colt, their friend and mentor, lived after he'd finished his railroad project. Although he was only forty-eight, he felt he was getting old—too old for hunting the way he'd spent his best years. Chasing monsters, fighting demons, making guns to help his fellow hunters, Colt had aged much earlier, and now had a strong desire to break the tradition of dying on the battlefield. He decided to move to Connecticut, closer to the numerous amenities found in big cities, and a modest amount of privacy.

Seeing Sam and Dean off, he told them, 'Be quick, boys, I need to move outta here before the winter.' What he didn't add, was that he was asking them not to miss him being alive. Dean remembered his troubled breathing, hoarse because of countless years spent with gunpowder and greasy weapon mechanisms, his narrowed, near-sighted eyes and early wrinkles across his forehead. The old man had never looked that bad before, and without any doubt, he meant what he'd said. They had to hurry.

The case that Samuel Colt had sent them on was indeed a part of his moving preparations. Along with the wish to pass away in his own bed, he felt obliged to leave behind weaponry powerful enough to supply other hunters who would stay in business after he was gone. He'd made a special gun—the very same .36 gun that Dean had now in his hip holster—and the gun was a great, impeccable, state-of-art weapon. To the best of Colt's knowledge, it could kill anything, literally every supernatural entity regardless of its origin. The only thing it couldn't do, obviously, was supplying itself with magic silver bullets. They were so hard to make and so necessary to fire. Without them, it was just another gun—good, but worthless to hunters.

Colt had only one bullet left, with a number ‘1’ engraved on it, stored in a sealed iron box in the relative safety of his basement in Nebraska. Colt had been searching for the proper components to make new ones for years, but attempt after attempt, he was realizing their inferiority. The oil he used was the best ever found, sage and myrrh were grown in his own little garden. Neither of these could possibly be wrong, so after another round of thorough research (and a good number of field tests), Colt came to the only obvious conclusion: the problem was with the silver. Although just a tiny amount of it was needed, the quality had to be exceptional, the purity very high. And needless to say, this kind of silver was nowhere to be found.

It was only a month before that Colt at last got a lead on where to obtain it from. Among the samples he'd ordered from everywhere in the country he could reach, there happened to be one that appeared very close to ideal. It came from recently discovered mine fields alongside the canyons of the Colorado river. The specimen was small in size, the smallest of all, but even before Colt started casting, he could feel Lady Luck had finally given him a smile. He made a dozen bullets and waited patiently for a few days until Sam and Dean found an appropriate demon for him, and went to test the gun in person. It worked perfectly—as perfectly as Colt hadn't even hoped to anticipate. Shot in the forehead, the demon stood frozen for a second, and then he blew up from inside, sending out a flaming glow and deafening desperate yell.

This discovery brought a dramatic change to Colt's research, narrowing its range to an apparently small area of the western bank of the Colorado river, or, as it was referred to on the existing maps, Eldorado Canyon. The only missing detail was the exact mine where the silver was taken from. This little, but rather critical, detail was the reason why Sam and Dean had already been driving their stagecoach for ten days and eight hundred miles.

San Juan, the silver miners camp and the only town-like settlement around Eldorado Canyon, was now about a hundred and twenty miles away. They could reach it in two days, which seemed an instant compared to the distance they’d left behind, and Sam had a point: they had to be careful. Careful and well prepared for whatever waited for them in San Juan.

“I’ll hold on,” Dean said again, this time really meaning it. “What these folks told us, all this lore about black-eyed people over there...Just to be honest, it doesn’t look good to me. Seems we’re going to a demons capital, huh?”

Sam shot back a suspicious gaze as if he wasn’t sure about the sincerity of Dean’s surrender. At last he nodded, “Seems so. Any ideas on the plan?”

“Nothing certain.”

Dean didn’t want to confess how far from any plan he really was. He was thinking about it all the way from that saloon, but everything he tried to plot eventually led him to a ridiculously simple action. To himself, he called it ‘come-fight-win’, and although the first two usually worked out fine, the latter was sort of tricky. For a town full of demons, they needed something more consistent, even delicate, and rushing in with just their bare hands was probably the very last resort.

“Do you think we could keep our disguise?” Sam asked.

“For the first half hour yes, but then...Very unlikely. Every time we’ve confronted demons, they spotted us easily. As if we had full-size white ribbons on our hats saying ‘Hunters’. They just feel us, Sam, like a mouse feels a cat.”

Sam gave him a sad grin. “By the way, what was that story about a cat?”

“Touching, wasn’t it?”

“No. Stupid, actually.”

“You’re saying that because you’ve never had this thing with cat hair,” Dean said. “You’ve never known what real torture is.”

“Spending an hour in a room with Missouri’s kitten has impressed you so much?”

“It’s been the worst day of my life.”

Sam laughed softly. This kind of bickering was their usual ritual—along with many others— formed during the years they’d spent together hunting, driving the stage, sharing last bits of food and last gulps of drinks. They knew each other better than anyone else and could afford such mocking without getting offended. They barely realized how much it helped them to relieve tension and fatigue, and just went on with jokes and comments that other people would consider insulting.

Sam reached out to add some sage-brush to the fire. “I hate to say it, but maybe we should ask for help?”

“There’s no help, Sammy. None. Everyone I can think of is busy and is gonna be busy for a couple more years. Damn this bloody war!”

“Don’t say that!” Sam jumped up to his feet and crouched over Dean, his fists clenched. “This war is for the right thing, for freedom and justice, and don’t you dare laugh at that!”

“I don’t.”

“If this weren't for dad, I’d be there too, you know?”

“I know damn well.” Dean stood up too and looked Sam in the eye. At moments like this, he sometimes regretted he was not as tall as his brother. “Sam, we talked about this. They’ll do without us. Our job is here.”

“Having talked about this doesn’t mean I agree. Everybody is out there fighting, no matter how old or young, and we’re just wandering around the Frontier as if nothing has happened.”

“Yes, we are!” Dean shouted. “And we’re not just wandering, like you say, we’ve got a couple of things to do here, you remember that? Like, important things that no one else will do for us! Old Abe has eighty thousand people to beat the Confeds, he’ll be fine. And this war isn’t forever. Sooner or later, one way or another, it’ll be over, but the monsters won’t kill themselves.”

Sam bit his lower lip. “Can’t the monsters wait? I mean, they’ve been out there before, why won’t they be out there after?”

Dean glanced back at him.

“After what?”

“After the war’s over.”

“After the war’s over,” Dean said distinctly, “we might be dead. As many others, by the way, but many others won’t go hunting ghosts and demons, many others won’t start making silver bullets, and many others won’t bother reading books.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. We aren’t so special.”

“I’m not saying we are.”

Dean winced, as he said that. He never thought of himself and Sam as someone ‘special’, at least not in the way Sam had meant it. They deserved no better than thousands of men their age, now dressed in the blue uniforms of the Union and fighting in Missouri and North Carolina. The Winchesters—all of them—had always been good at fighting, maybe even the best, but this sole reason was no excuse for hiding their heads in the sand while the whole country had broken apart for what each side considered the right thing.

It was their father’s decision to keep them away, and the kind of decision one wouldn’t argue against. Dean tried to protest at first, but seeing his father’s stiffened face and listening to the silence that followed the order, he gave up right away. Sam, however, was not so quick to obey and kept attempting to negotiate. He promised they’d be careful, pointed out how skilled at fighting they were, listed all the other hunters who volunteered for Abraham Lincoln’s call-up proclamation. Everything turned out to be in vain. For reasons their father left undisclosed, instead of the war, Sam and Dean were sent to Nebraska, under the command of Samuel Colt.

And so far, their mission was not running very smoothly.

“Why don’t you look at this another way,” Dean said. “We’re the only ones here on the road, but maybe it means we’re not the worst? Like, we are really able to do something? Help Colt, save the innocents...That sort of thing, you know.”

“Incredible trust, yeah. I should’ve guessed,” Sam shrugged his shoulder. “It’s just every other hunter is afield. Dad, all the Campbells, Carl Bates, Rufus...Even old Fred Jones. Every one! Except us.”

“Bobby isn’t.”

“Only because he’s limping.”

For Bobby Singer, their closest friend and most trusted advisor, all wars were over after a hard fight he’d had with a demon. Bobby miraculously survived, but a knee injury left him with a limp forever.

“So we’re three, not two,” Dean smirked. “Come on, Sam. Hunting things is no easier than killing soldiers. Let’s do what we’re best at and see what’s coming.” He reached for their travel sack and added, “It’s late. Let’s eat, I’m starving.”

“You always are.”

“Like you aren’t, Gargantua.”

Dean took out a parcel with jerky, crackers and a sealed bottle of water. These simple meals made up their usual dinners while they were on a journey. Sometimes, they were lucky to get fresh bread and cheese at the stage-stations, where they stopped to change horses every twenty miles, but this day they arrived too late, and everything had been sold. There were a lot of travelers heading to Nevada, and the supplies at the stations often ran short.

Dean sliced a piece of jerky for Sam and took one for himself. The dry, salty meat smelled of sun and dust, and Dean smiled blissfully at the familiar taste as he swallowed his first few bites.

“Coffee?” Sam asked as he watched Dean chew for a few moments.

“Yeah. I’ve washed the pot, by the way, it was all black.”

Sam said nothing. The coffee pot, their only piece of cutlery, got smoky after each time in a fire, and the brothers took turns cleaning it. Sam never enjoyed it, though, insisting he was better at other tasks that he performed readily. He wasn’t a kitchen person, and the reasons he sometimes invented to avoid cooking were ridiculously creative. Once, he went to wash the pot in a small river and came back with two freshly killed rabbits. The pot was not even wet.

Dean flattened the charcoal and placed a narrow grid over the fire. Sam carefully set the pot on top of it and stood up, wiping his hands over his pants. Dean expected him to sit nearby, but instead, Sam headed to the stage. When he returned, he had a folded map in his hand.

“I was thinking,” he started, sitting down at last, and Dean was relieved to hear all the bitterness almost gone from his voice, "Just as an idea…Maybe we shouldn't dash in there in full armor? If we leave the stage somewhere and dress like miners or something…Just new folks to the town, huh? We could buy ourselves some time this way, couldn't we?” He scratched his forehead and went on, “Did you notice these two men back at the saloon? With sour faces and water in their mugs, sitting in the corner? They looked innocent like nuns.”

Dean remembered them rather vaguely, but Sam was always noticing everything in detail.

“So what?”

“So we could pick some similar outfits for San Juan,” Sam explained. “Woolen shirts, silly hats…”

“I’m not wearing a silly hat,” Dean said.

“Fine, you can leave yours off, the rest should be enough…Look, if we come as miners seeking for a job, no one will be surprised that we ask questions and poke into their business.”

“No one but demons,” Dean sighed not feeling even half enthusiastic about the plan. “And what about the gear? And the stage?”

“The gear can be shoved into sacks, and as for the stage…” Sam unfolded the map on his lap and pressed his index finger to the tiny starred spot, “There is this place, Las Vegas Springs, with an abandoned Old Mormon Fort, right on the way. It’s only about thirty miles from the Upper camp, or San Juan if you’d like. If we leave the stage there, we’ll just have a short ride to the site, don’t you think?”

“I don’t,” Dean said. “I don’t think riding thirty miles is a short distance. I don’t think riding even a mile is a short distance, truth be told. And, more importantly, I don’t think leaving the stage where I can’t reach it is a good idea. By the time we’re back, there’ll be no trace of the stage over there, you understand that?”

“Why not?”

“You tell me that, book-worm. The Indians. It’s been Pah-Ute lands until recently, and Pah-Ute are not the sort of generous folks sharing the last bits. What they find, they take, no matter if someone disagrees. Oh, but they may offer a couple of their nice arrows, just in exchange. Right in other people’s chests.”

“We have guns too,” Sam protested.

“Not against a crowd of painted bastards on horseback.”

“Oh.”

“Damn right.” It was not an excessive precaution or another campfire story. Dean had not met the Indians himself, but he had heard much about them, and if at least half of the stories were true, he could probably write a thrilling book on them.

The pot hissed, its cap giving a tiny ring, calling for attention. Dean reached out to take the coffee from the fire and filled two iron mugs. “We can’t lose the stage, Sam,” he said, “that’s out of the question.”

Sam nodded grimly. “I know. I only suggested we leave it in some safe place, but...All right, if that’s not what you want, we’ll think of something else.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sam made a face, but Dean pretended not to notice it and kept staring at the fire. The dancing flame was both mesmerizing and stunningly scary, too lively for a thing bringing death. He never talked about it with Sam, but he didn’t need to. They both remembered what had happened.

The day Fort Sumter fell was the last day of a peaceful life—for everyone but the Winchesters. Their own war (and their personal Hell) had begun five years before that, when the posse led by Sheriff Jones raided Lawrence.

Sam and Dean’s family moved there shortly after the city was founded. Well-positioned at the geographical border of the pro-slavery South and the open-minded North, Kansas made a decent reputation for itself as a progressive, civilized state, and attracted crowds of settlers. Lawrence soon became an unofficial capital of the anti-slavery movement—when the words ‘civil rights’ sounded new and unfamiliar—and was growing incredibly fast. In only two years, it was as prosperous as many new cities those days, and its neat, clean streets and wooden houses still smelling of fresh paint were full of young, hopeful people.

John and Mary Winchester had been among the first of them. Together, they owned and ran the ‘Free-State Hotel’, the business actually serving a double purpose: providing the family with a modest, but regular income, and being a hunters’ cover in both a direct and indirect sense. Located at the virtual crossroads of America (the fact often referenced internally as ‘an only no-deal crossroads’), the hotel sheltered hunters traveling across the states and supplied them with the necessary gear. John Winchester personally managed the basement armory that could make the Union Army genuinely envious, and replenished hunting supplies. Although they didn’t have a large variety of those, bullets and silver knives were always on demand.

On May 21st, 1856, the date forever imprinted into Sam and Dean’s memories, their whole world shattered into pieces, with no hope of a return to their previous lives. Sheriff Jones led a well-armed posse to attack the city, and destroyed and looted everything he managed to reach. He burned down the Lawrence newspaper building, a few smaller houses and, presumably to make his point crystal clear, the Free-State Hotel. That night, John was away on a hunt, together with Sam and Dean, but Mary stayed in her room upstairs as usual. She didn’t even have a chance to escape, as the fire caught the wooden steps in mere moments, and the stairs collapsed, thus cutting off all the exits. The flame was bright as a Christmas tree, and someone reported later that its fierce shine was well seen from a five-mile distance, but no one dared to approach the burning building. A crowd of Lawrencers stood around the giant fire, watching it helplessly, and praying for the poor souls trapped inside. They didn’t have to wait long—in half an hour everything was over. Where the hotel had been, nothing was left but a pile of smoking garbage and hot ash.

Mary Winchester wasn’t the only one who had died in the fire—three guests and a maid didn’t make it out either—but for John and his boys, this actually made no difference. The morning they came back, everything was gone. The bodies of the dead had never been found, and they had nothing to bury. They could only stand near the smoldering ruins, staring at the remains of their home, grieving and mourning silently, giving their last farewell to Mary. Remembering that day, Dean still smelt smoke, and his eyes got stingy, and although he didn’t ask, he was sure Sam felt somewhat the same. He’d never seen his dad smile ever since.

Three days later, on May 24th, John Winchester joined a local anti-slavery leader and newspaper owner John Brown for an act of revenge. Blinded by rage and despair, they killed five slave-catchers, but Jones wasn’t among them—though a deep-dyed villain, he had been clever enough to disappear from the city shortly after his devastating raid.

Eventually, John decided the same. They left Lawrence the night after Brown’s massacre and never came back. Wherever their hunt took them, it was always far away from that part of Kansas, whichever case they worked on, it never required any weapon they’d left behind. Their new base now was in South Dakota, at Bobby Singer’s place. They never separated when going away, even on short journeys the three remaining Winchesters were together—until John left for the war, and gave Sam and Dean their new assignment with Colt. They hadn’t heard from their dad since then but kept hoping he was alive.

Dean brushed a copper button on his leather vest, then rolled it between his fingers. Diving into his memories always made him clumsy and inattentive, and he hated it when others could see him like that. He looked up, but Sam only smiled at him.

“Thought you were praying again,” he said.

Dean waved dismissively and forced out a grin. “I never pray,” he declared. “Unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Like what? Getting a quad?”

“There’s a number of things,” Dean said mysteriously. Then he added, “Sometimes it includes having a warm night and no mosquitos inside the stage, so you can join my prayer for that when you’re done with the fire.”

He stood up and started walking away. He felt he was being watched, but he didn’t turn back.


	3. Hello Stranger

Prayer or not, Sam and Dean slept well and woke up at the first beams of sunlight sneaking through the blinded windows of the stagecoach. The night was quiet and peaceful, nobody (except for the horses) happened to appear near the stage, but Dean’s right hand never let go the gun, until he was fully awake. He stretched out, yawned and elbowed Sam with a usual ‘check up on the horses’.

“Good morning to you too.” Sam blinked sleepily and reached out to unlock the coach door, a gun is his hand. “We’re still alone,” he said as he peered outside.

“Awesome, so the Virgin is still a virgin. Get some water, I’ll make us coffee.”

Dean watched Sam leave, then opened the other door and jumped onto the ground. Pebbles crunched under his feet, and before making his next step, Dean looked around for snakes. The crawling critters loved this kind of terrain and over the last few days had placed themselves, furled in neat circles, under the coach. This morning there were none, as far as Dean could see. He shook off a few wisps of hay from his shirt and pants, squared his shoulders, and turned back to make what served them as a ‘bed’.

They slept in their stage much more often than in real beds, but seemed not to feel any discomfort about it—at least Dean would not admit to it. Their ‘moving hotel’ was always with them, large and soft as a ship on four wheels, and spacious enough to accommodate its only passengers. Although the exterior of the stagecoach looked very typical for its kind—it had wooden walls and a roof reinforced by iron strips at the sides and painted shiny black—the interior was completely different. There were two facing seats, upholstered with light-brown leather, each having an easily removable back. During the day, and in places where the stage could be seen, the seats appeared to be normal, but when the brothers stopped for the night somewhere along the road, the backs were taken out and put down as an extension to the seats, thus making a relatively smooth and large surface. Even Sam, with his giant height, felt fine there, his toes not reaching the other side, and Dean joked occasionally that if his brother went on growing, there would still be a few spare inches left. Under the seats, they had a huge pile of warm blankets, a couple of pillows (a combination almost luxurious for most other travelers) and a small tin box with soap—a treasure that increased the comfort of the stage to an unreachable height.

But this wasn’t the only reason Dean cared for their stagecoach so much. What made it special was the double bottom, well-hidden under the layer of painted wood—the armory. The secret compartment had two covers, one for internal access, and the other could be opened from outside, between the wheels. The outer cover was much smaller in size, barely a foot high and looked like a narrow shelf for extra luggage, but Sam and Dean owed it a lot. Numerous times, it saved their lives during close attacks. The armory held every weapon and type of gear any hunter could think of and possibly use, from razor-sharp silver knives and machetes to Colt carbines and Spencer repeating rifles. To enhance its protection, the inner walls of the stage were painted with a variety of protective sigils, and the roof had the main one on it—a demon trap. Although no intruder was ever allowed inside, all the drawings were invisible, made with phosphorus-based paint, and only revealed by the pale white shining in the darkness. This trick, as well as all the other ‘coach-craft’ (including solid silver door handles hidden under a layer of paint),  was Bobby’s work—not able to hunt anymore, he developed his other skills incredibly and never missed a chance to use them. Eventually, the stage Sam and Dean were driving came out unique in both design and history. It was more of a friend than a means of transport, and quite obviously, that was why it had never been left behind.

By the time Dean finished restoring the disguise inside the stage, the sun was well up on the horizon, sharing its light and warmth over the waking land. An endless rocky terrain spread all the way to the south, and distant hills were barely visible in the morning mist. It wasn’t hot yet, but Dean knew it wouldn’t last long: even in October, the daytime heat made them stay outside as little as possible, and the inner rim of his hat was never dry. This annoying and uncomfortable effect was one of the things Sam used to joke about, but Dean paid no attention. He loved his hat.

Dean glanced over the stage for the last time and headed off to start the fire. The sage-brush they had left near the hole the night before was gone, and nowhere to be seen, so Dean had to fetch some more. He was blowing at it furiously, trying to get it to light, as Sam approached with a bucket of water.

“We have to change the horses,” he said, “they are weary.”

Dean straightened, happy to be interrupted. “I bet they are. It’s been…how far? Thirty miles?”

“Almost thirty.”

“And it should’ve been twenty.” On familiar roads, they changed horses even more often, every ten-to-fifteen miles (and postal signs on the stage doors served that purpose ideally), but these desert lands didn’t offer such a luxury. “What’s next on your map, Mr. Columbus?”

Sam thought a moment. “Las Vegas.”

“Sounds fine to me.”

The fire started at last, and Dean placed a pot with fresh coffee on a grid. Waiting for it to boil, they washed their faces and shaved with the remains of water. It wasn’t very clean, and Dean winced as he sensed the sand crunching at his teeth.

“Why is it not gold?” he grumbled, spitting out the grains. “Would at least be worth it.”

Sam laughed and shook his head. “Good luck next time. Not sure about gold, but silver’s gonna be there.”

“It’d better be.”

They had their small breakfast of leftovers from the last evening, and a few eggs Sam saved in a special little basket filled with hay. They ate in silence; for some unspoken reason, they never discussed serious matters until sunset. With a hundred and twenty miles left to the place, they knew they would have their time. In half an hour, they were done and ready for the road.

The route they now went on was the famous Spanish Trail, the first continuous trade route for the south-western part of the country, connecting Santa Fe and Los Angeles. They left the Salt Lake City road and joined the main route soon after St. George, and the map Sam had shown their next station to be about thirty miles away. After hundreds of migrant trains and thousands of hooves, the road was still rocky and hard, but overall quite smooth. Even with the horses they had, it was barely a three-hour journey.

Sam and Dean sat side-by-side on a high driving seat. Dean had a whip in his lap, Sam was holding a map that he glanced at occasionally, although both of them knew there were no towns or camps for many miles around—only desolate plains, dusty stones, and gray sand. And the war seemed very far away.

#

“I think we’ll be there by noon,” Sam said, handing Dean the whip.

They had left the stage station with six fresh horses, two sacks filled with food and leather bottles with drinking water. Their last leg of the route had to be one of the longest, so they wanted to get ready for it with everything they could need. They drove at a low speed all night, taking shifts, and had just changed.

“Yeah,” Dean yawned. “Where’s that turn we have to take?”

“At the crossroads, right after the Mormon fort I told you about.”

Dean frowned. “Still want to drop in there?”

“No, I just…” Sam scratched the nape of his neck. “Just thought, as it’s straight on the way and we’re making good time…Maybe it’s worth taking a look at? What if it’s safe there?”

“It isn’t. I told you, I’m not leaving the stage anywhere, no matter what.”

Sam pursed his lips. “It’s not your stage, it’s ours. I don’t want anything to happen to it any more than you do, but—”

Dean didn’t let him finish. “Forget it, Sammy.”

“Sam.”

“All right, Samuel.”

“Shut up.”

The argument appeared to be over, yet as the coach moved on, Dean gave it more thought. He wasn’t a bit enthusiastic about the fort itself, but the map indicated there were springs around—a very rare source of clear water in the heart of a desert—and springs also meant there could be meadows nearby. Their horses had traveled about twenty miles already, and Dean believed they would appreciate some fresh grass instead of dusty sage-brush. Apart from that, one of the horses started limping some time ago and obviously needed a new shoe. Sure enough, the map said nothing about how old the old fort was and whether it had any blacksmith tools left, but there was a chance worth trying.

“How long has it been abandoned?” Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. “No idea. Three years? I’ve just learned about it from the map.”

Three years was a long time these days when Indians raided newly discovered lands with a surprising regularity. Dean heard of a town in New Mexico, which had been robbed five times in just one month, until there was nothing but the ash of the burnt houses left. The whole fort with whatever the Mormons had left in it (though unlikely to be much) seemed like a slice of the pie. Dean peered at the troubled horseshoe and noticed it was still there, possibly only needing a few nails and a hammer. Not having any value, these materials could still be there.

“All right, you won,” he said reluctantly. “We’re gonna stop there. Don’t thank me.”

Sam chuckled. “I wasn’t asking for a favor.” His voice was still irritated, but his face brightened with contentment. He was clearly satisfied with the change of plan. “I guess we’re already close…Yeah, I can see it! Look over there.”

Dean looked where Sam was pointing. There, on the right side of the road, about a mile ahead, was a long solid wall stretching out for at least a hundred and fifty feet, with higher watch towers at the corners. Dean moved his hat upwards and squinted.

“What were they keeping there?” he mumbled. “Looks like a damned fortress.”

It took them a few more minutes to drive closer. The wall formed an accurate square and was made of yellowish adobe, mostly still in place. Dean guided the stage alongside and finally saw the entrance. The gates were gone, now replaced by two crisscrossed wooden poles attached to an empty wooden frame. Whoever had put them there was barely afraid of intruders.

“Does it mean we’re welcome in?” Sam said, jumping to the ground. He reached out to touch one of the poles, and it fell down easily. The second one wasn’t nailed either.

At the sight of such a strong defense, Dean grinned.

“Secure.”

He tied the horses to the remains of the gate and followed Sam. The fort looked harmless, but a little too well-cared-for a deserted place. The entrance was free of large stones and garbage, and one of the gate towers still had a wooden plate with an ecliptic Mormon crest—a beehive sitting on a low stool with a few bees flying around it.

“How subtly they claim the land they’ve conquered,” Dean noted. “Weird there isn’t a round hat pinned to the wall.”

“Maybe it was.”

They looked around to make sure they were alone, then exchanged glances. As they slowly stepped in, they both had their guns unholstered.

The inner yard of the fort was empty and lifeless. In the very center, there stood a single-story building with large rectangular windows. The door hung open, its hinges making irritating squeaks at each blow of the breeze. Behind that building, there were a few smaller ones, apparently former barns or warehouses. Unlike the main house (or whatever it had been), the utility units were closed and under impressive iron locks. Around the whole space, no sound of anything alive was heard.

“A busy place,” Dean said, putting away the gun.

Sam gave him a little laugh. “Yeah, a whole crowd.”

They approached the main building and walked around it, peering into the windows. Surprisingly, they saw some pieces of simple wooden furniture and kitchen cutlery that were left intact, and the rooms looked abandoned by the people without being damaged. There were no signs of brutal raids by Indians as Dean imagined them. Everything about the house looked quite peaceful.

Behind the house, in a deep shadow cast by a huge fig tree, they found a well with a white stone basement. It looked amazingly undisturbed too, and its iron chain and bucket weren’t even rusty. Sam reached out towards the rugged handle and shook his head in disbelief.

“Does it still have water?”

Dean caught himself thinking the same thing. He stepped closer and picked up the bucket to have a look. And a moment later he nearly jumped in surprise.

The bucket was wet.

“Guess it does,” Dean said, rubbing the rim of the bucket with his index finger. “I just wonder who got it.”

Sam and Dean looked around. The main house was obviously uninhabited, the two other buildings stood locked. Walking further along the wall, almost hidden with thick thorny bushes, for about fifteen feet they saw nothing but dry gray plants almost the height of a human, forming a natural inner wall to the fort. It was growing a few feet from the real wall as if inviting visitors to play a game of labyrinth but with a very easy route to the exit.

They nearly missed an opening—it appeared in the bushy fence all of a sudden. The branches were cut arch-like, neatly and exactly to the width of an adult. And they had been cut quite recently. Dean drew out his gun and stopped with his back pressed to the bush. Sam mirrored him on the other side of the opening. They nodded to each other and looked inside.

There was a small garden. Two rows with something bright green sticking out from the ground stretched out from the bushes to the wall. Each had low wooden plant-bed borders. In the middle, there was a little stool, rather similar to the one on the crest. And as if to emphasize that similarity, at a distance, in the corner of the fort wall, Dean saw three boxes painted yellow and looking very much like primitive beehives. He was right about to point it out when he heard gravel shuffling under someone’s feet.

Sam raised his gun first, ready to fire, and Dean did the same in a well-trained rapid movement that came without thinking. They could not yet see the stranger, just heard him approaching at a brisk, confident pace.

“May I help you, gentlemen?”

The voice was low and deep, and a question, though put quite politely, sounded somewhat menacing.

It was too late to fire, Dean realized with a mixture of regret and relief. They weren’t attacked, so they didn’t have to defend; they weren’t even feeling any danger, and if anything, killing without reason had never been Dean’s habit. He lowered his gun and entered the garden.

The stranger stood right in front of him—a well-set man in his early thirties, in a dusty black shirt with rolled up sleeves and pants thin at the knees. The roughness of his face was softened by a cautious expression of a house owner at the sight of unexpected guests, the dark-haired head was slightly tilted aside, and squinty blue eyes were staring at Dean with a weird, almost innocent curiosity.

“Who are you?” Dean asked him, feeling a bit uneasy under his gaze.

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

“We’re…” Dean started, uncertain what to say. “We’re just passing by.”

The stranger raised an eyebrow. “So what made you stop?”

Sam made a step forward. “Listen, we don’t mean you any harm, all right? We came to see if we could get some water for the horses.” He paused a little, then added, “If that’s fine with you.”

The stranger didn’t answer. He looked at Sam in the same intense way he had been staring at Dean, slowly moved his gaze to the guns, then looked up again.

“I don’t see any horses.”

“We didn’t bring them in,” Dean said. “And we never thought to find anyone here.”

“This place is not open to the public.” The man frowned, and Dean wondered if he should apologize for their intrusion. “Well, if your residual curiosity is satisfied—”

He made a gesture that unmistakably meant ‘please leave now’ and turned his back on Sam and Dean to get back to his garden. He seemed totally undisturbed by the visit, even indifferent to it, and surely enough he wasn’t afraid. Now that he bent over his plants and wasn’t staring at them anymore, Dean took a closer look at the man—or rather, at the man’s back. He didn’t look like a miner or a soldier, his strong sun-tanned arms and undistinguished clothes he wore could match literally any occupation. He took a small shovel and started to dig the dry soil, demonstrating the skill and experience of a farmer, but his hands, elegant and thin, almost aristocratic, made one wonder if this really was his family legacy.

“Do you live here?” Dean asked him, suddenly reluctant to leave.

“No.”

He didn’t even turn his head, and Dean went on, “So, visiting the garden? What’s that you grow there?”

“Vegetables.”

“Such as?” Sam pulled his sleeve, hinting to stop the interrogation, but Dean ignored him. “Carrots?”

“And radishes too.” He looked over his shoulder and for a moment met Dean’s gaze, “Is there anything else you would like to know?”

“Sorry, sir,” Sam said reassuringly, “my—my partner is sometimes too persistent.”

The stranger nodded, “He is, indeed.”

Dean felt he was cut to the quick.

“Someone could take that as an insult,” he said and meaningfully rotated the Colt at his finger. That trick made everyone Dean had ever met before, retreat in fear, but this man merely held his gaze at the gun as though he was unpleasantly surprised to see it, and looked away.

“Someone could mind others trespassing his property,” he said. “But not me.”

He fixed the last scraggy plant and got on his feet. When he looked up, he was not smiling, as one could expect, but so far, he did nothing expected. Dean watched as the man shook off the dirt from his hands and headed to the opening. As he walked by, he nearly touched Dean’s shoulder, but never deviated his pace and didn’t avert his gaze from the path. He made a beeline to one of the barns and a moment later, disappeared behind it.

“His property,” Dean repeated with a forced grin. “You heard that? What does he think he is? A Messiah?”

“Probably.” Sam looked as confused, as Dean felt himself. “But he’s got the point. We’ve trespassed.”

“I don’t give a damn. And he said he didn’t mind,” Dean shrugged. “So let’s go get some water and leave this squirrel with his nuts.”

They returned to the well. Dean dropped the bucket inside and as he heard a splash of water, started to swing the handle. Sam helped him holding the chain in place.

“Dean,” he whispered, “don’t you think we could still use this place? Maybe he wouldn’t mind that either?”

“No.”

“But he doesn’t seem dangerous. If he only looks after his garden, why not—”

“I said—no. End of story.”

The bucket was already at the level of a stony edge of the well. Dean reached out to catch it, but his arm froze in midair.

The stranger was coming back. He’d changed, and now on top of his previous clothes, he had a light-brown coat, high boots, and a flat black hat. On his waist, unexpectedly, there was a belt and a small holster with what could be nothing but a .41 Deringer. In his left hand, he held a bulging sack. But all of this wasn’t exactly the reason why Dean let the bucket fall back into the well.

At his neck, the man had a white clerical collar.

Sam and Dean’s expressions obviously spoke for themselves. For a few moments, both brothers merely stood staring at the man, not able to speak or move, their eyes rounded and mouths ajar.

Sam was the first to get over the shock.

“You’re…you’re a preacher?”

The man hesitated a second, then nodded. “Yes.”

Hastily Sam snatched his hat off. Dean followed him, swearing mutely.

“Sorry, reverend…We—we didn't realize what you are.”

The preacher bent his head slightly and looked at Dean as if expecting him to say something appreciative too. Not quite sure what that was exactly, and not quite feeling like he wanted to apologize, Dean just smiled.

“Yeah,” he said finally, “I gotta say, I fold here. You’ve turned us round finger.”

The preacher tilted his head sideways. “Pardon me, I fail to catch what you mean by that.”

“That you’ve played your trick pretty well.”

At this, the frown on the preacher’s face got even deeper. “I haven’t played any tricks. I might be a poor example of a preacher, but I am certainly not a gambler.”

The whole sentence sounded so ridiculously serious, that Dean couldn’t help but laugh shortly at it.

 “All right, never mind. No offense meant, father…”

“Castiel.”

“What?”

“Father Castiel,” he repeated. “That’s what everybody calls me.” And noticing that Dean inadvertently looked around trying to figure out who this ‘everybody’ referred to, the preacher added, “As I have told you already, I do not live here. A little company of believers I have the honor of serving is located in a small town not far from this place.”

“Is it, by any chance, the town of San Juan?” Sam asked prosily.

“It is.”

Sam glanced up in surprise. “But that’s thirty miles away?”

“Thirty-five. Although the Upper Camp where I stay for the most of the daytime, is somewhat closer.”

The whole thing was starting to get interesting. Undoubtedly, the preacher could know a lot about the town and, specifically, its black-eyed inhabitants. The way they met, Dean wasn’t expecting to get information easily (and the Colt he had aimed at the unarmed person wasn’t helping that), but nevertheless, he felt a sudden urge to continue this conversation.

“That makes a hell of a difference,” he snorted, belatedly realizing he probably should not had sworn at the face of a minister. “So where’s your horse? Don’t tell me you walked all the way here.”

The preacher—father Castiel—shrugged.

“Actually, I did. I’m good at walking.” There he fell silent with a weird abruptness as if he was afraid to speak too much. Without giving any other details or explanation, he lifted his sack and put it over his shoulder, clearly getting ready to continue his walking.

“Wait,” Dean said, “we could give you a ride.”

Sam gave him a curious look, but then accepted the new direction of the game. He nodded and put on his best open-hearted smile.

“We’re going to San Juan,” he said, “and we have a stagecoach big enough for the three of us.”

Castiel stared at him, as though Sam had claimed they were heading to Hell.

“I wouldn’t recommend you to go there, unless it’s a matter of life and death. And even if it is, I still don’t recommend it.”

He was indeed a valuable witness, and now it was more than obvious. Dean pursed his lips to hide his excitement.

“Really? Yet we’ll go. Are you joining us?”

“No, thank you.”

“But it’s gonna be faster,” Dean insisted. “The stage is great, you’ll see. It can do ten miles an hour!”

“I’m not in a particular hurry to die, gentlemen,” Castiel said, shaking his head, “which will inevitably happen as a result of arriving by stage and having you as a company.”

As unexpected as this statement came out, it didn’t sound exaggerated. The preacher knew what he was talking about.

“Why?” Dean asked.

Castiel gazed at him straight in the eye. After a brief pause, he said, “Because hunters are not welcome there.”


	4. Moving On

Apparently, the last words Castiel had said made an effect that none of the three had expected. Since he stopped talking, the hunters stood still and speechless, their expressions clearly bewildered. They didn’t seem scared, though, which was probably a benefit of their occupation—from what Castiel had known, it was easier to kill a hunter, than to scare him.

The silence was becoming awkward. Castiel looked at the people in front of him in turn and said, “What’s the matter? Don’t you believe me?”

At first, there was no answer. Then, two crooked smiles followed, one by one, as if reflecting each other.

“How do you know we’re hunters?” the shorter one said.

Castiel raised his eyebrows. “Am I mistaken?”

“No. But how did you know?”

“Your gun,” Castiel sighed, rolling his eyes. “The one you were about to shoot me with. The engraving it has is quite recognizable.”

The hunters exchanged looks. They didn’t seem convinced.

“That’s if you know what to recognize.”

Again, it was the shorter man, apparently the one in charge in their small team. He was slightly older than his companion, maybe three or four years, but their appearances had something in common. The same well-set build, the same green eyes and hair the color of wet sand. If it weren't for the difference in height, Castiel would suppose that they were brothers.

“This isn’t knowledge I am happy about having,” he said. “But I’ve heard of the things you might be after. And this is precisely the reason why you should keep away from San Juan. It’s too dangerous.”

He regretted his last words the moment he finished saying them. It sounded too personal, way too personal, considering he had just met these people. Certainly, he didn’t have to care about them, and the polite warning he had given them already was quite sufficient. Castiel didn’t know what made him add something else.

This time, the shorter man was silent, but by the little movement he made with his mouth, Castiel guessed that none of his words got missed.

“Thank you,” the other man said, nodding. His voice changed, now it sounded softer and more gentle, as though he meant was he was saying. Compared to his companion, he appeared less arrogant, but this could be merely a part of a well-learned game these two were used to playing with strangers. “Thank you,” he repeated, “we appreciate that, honestly. It’s just...we have to go, we really have to. This is important to more than just us, you know? And if you tell us what you know, it would help, so—”

He wasn’t allowed to go on.

“Sam, we’ll be all right,” the first one said through his teeth. “We’ve met demons before and had them nailed. Alone.”

“But, Dean…”

“We’ll be fine.”

Castiel listened to them, feeling an annoyance rising gradually inside him. With all the humility he had taught himself, stupid bravado still was the last thing he liked about other people. He couldn’t help speaking up. “You have no notion of what you’ll be facing, no armor, no proper outfit and a great deal of self-confidence. Well, good luck, gentlemen.”

He started walking toward the gates without looking back. Behind him, there was silence. He doubted that the hunters agreed with what he had just said, but for some reason, they did not try to protest or to stop him. He reached the gates and paused to lift the poles from the ground. He set the first one back into place and stopped for a moment, wondering if it made sense to set the second one as if someone was still staying inside. He wasn’t certain that the hunters would leave everything in order, and didn’t want to take any risks, so after a moment of brief hesitation, he bent down for the remaining pole.

“Are you a hunter?”

Castiel winced—he didn’t hear the steps until they were so close. He was getting inexcusably negligent. But the man referred to as Dean looked both confused and hopeful, and Castiel caught himself thinking he liked that combination.

“Do I look like I am?” he said, glancing back over his shoulder.

“You look like you were. And behave like you are.” He suddenly reached out to help Castiel with the pole and smiled, “Sorry if it’s none of my business.” He rose and held out his hand, “I’m Dean Winchester, and this is my brother Sam. Look, we stumbled at the threshold, but I guess we really could use some help here…Your help, reverend.”

Castiel gave it a thought. “You may call me by my name,” he said at last. The title ‘reverend’ had always made him feel uncomfortable. “What kind of help do you need?”

“Well, to start with…” Dean paused as if trying to remember everything. Then, in a very serious voice, he went on, “Do you happen to have a hammer and nails? One of our horses is limping.”

He was smiling again, all hostility gone from his tone and expression. Castiel looked up cautiously but didn’t manage to find any evidence of malignity. He knew he wasn’t very good at tracing it, and under usual circumstances, he would refuse just out of habit. But now, with these people, he had a vague, long forgotten feeling of safety—a safety of cooperation for the sake of greater good. Surely, he hadn’t known a thing about these two hunters, and it was merely a deep flame shining in their eyes that Castiel could consider. However, it was the right kind of flame, the one of determination and desire to win. Anyway, even if he was mistaken with this blessing in disguise, his Deringer would handle it.

“Yes, Dean,” he said, lowering his sack onto the ground and looking ruefully at the poles he had to remove again.

 #

Castiel gave them everything they needed to fix the horseshoe, and for the next half an hour, the usual silence of an empty fort was interrupted with rhythmical hammering and the pitapat of hooves, splashes of water and overall bustle. While Dean was helping the limping horse, Sam was carrying water for the others, which they drank greedily. The brothers worked with such remarkable dexterity that Castiel felt his help would be excessive. Waiting for them to finish, he wandered over to the stagecoach to have a closer look.

It was huge, much bigger than he had expected, a true vessel on four wheels. Most of the stages he’d seen before were shabby and covered with multiple layers of road dirt, but this one obviously was well taken care of. Although its walls had some dust from the recent journey, their upper parts were still shiny like a pair of new boots. Someone must have made an effort to clean and polish them earlier this morning. Somehow, Castiel was sure it had been Dean.

Remembering he wasn’t invited in, Castiel stopped hesitantly in front of the door.

“Wanna come in?” Dean called out, lifting his head. “Come along, it’s unlocked.” He waved invitingly and watched as Castiel reached out for the door. For some reason, he didn’t avert his gaze until the moment Castiel’s fingers wrapped around the handle and squeezed it.

“It’s solid silver, isn’t it?”

With noticeable relief, Dean nodded. “Yeah. It sort of…filters out the guests we didn’t invite.”

“Apparently, it also filters out those who don’t like skin burns. It’s very hot.”

Dean grinned, “Sorry, it’s our first time so far south-west. In Nebraska, it was chilly.”

“You came down from Nebraska? That’s a long way.”

“Twelve days.”

Castiel opened the door and peered in. Inside, the stage looked even bigger than from outside, and was neat and clean—again, very different from what Castiel had seen before. Apart from that, he didn’t notice anything special about it.

“Like it?” Dean asked, approaching. He waved a hammer in his hand and added, “It’s a true beauty, isn’t it?”

“It looks very nice,” Castiel agreed politely, feeling that any other answer could result in a hit with a hammer. “Very…impressive.”

“You can’t imagine what it has seen.”

“Maybe even too impressive,” Castiel went on, “for your mission. San Juan is a small town, a stage like this has never been seen there. It will immediately attract everyone’s attention.”

“You mean—demons’?”

“I mean—everyone’s. Including demons.”

Dean frowned.

“So it is true what they say about this place? Demons and everything?”

“I am not aware of what you’ve been told,” Castiel said cautiously. “There are…things that would be better to avoid than to meet. Ruthless. Powerful. Cunning.”

“That’s all right, we’re the same.” He smiled, but his eyes remained alert and serious. “Even though we aren’t demons.” He stared somewhere ahead of him, where an empty road was stretching out to the unknown, taking his time to think. When he spoke again, his gaze was still fixed on gray dust and stones, “So…will you help us? To find out who’ll stand to gain?”

“You overestimate my abilities, Dean,” Castiel said. “There isn’t much help that I can offer.” He looked back at the stage and the horses chomping their bits, impatient to move after rest and water. Dean seemed rather impatient too, so Castiel said, “I have one piece of advice for you. Leave the stage.”

In a single moment, Dean turned his head back and snapped, “What?”

“Leave it. For whatever it means to you, in San Juan it would be more of a hindrance than a help.”

“Dammit, father! I have Sam for words like that.”

“Did he advise the same?”

Dean leaned to the stage and lovingly caressed its shiny black wood. He didn’t have to answer—everything was written on his face in block letters.

“I’m not leaving it,” he said, his voice lacking confidence. He looked up as if searching for someone to support him, but Sam was still standing near the well, oblivious to the argument. The corners of Dean’s mouth went down, all of a sudden he was looking sad and broken. “It’s…you don’t understand what it is to us.”

“Probably. But it may be helpful to know that your stage will be much safer on its own,” Castiel noted. “For instance, here.”

Dean snorted, “In an empty fort, standing wide-open in the middle of nowhere, and guarded with a pair of toothpicks? Awesome.”

“Is it just me or you never listen to the end?”

“The end of what?”

“Of what I suggest. And I won’t offer twice.”

Dean stared back, uncertain whether to surrender or not. So they kept standing, eyeing each other silently, tense and wary, like two cats over a bowl of milk, as Sam came up to them.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking anxiously at Dean and Castiel in turn. “What’s the matter? Dean, if it’s you being rude again…Reverend?”

There was a brief silence, then Dean said reluctantly, “It’s just that he agrees with you. He says we have to leave the stage.”

“Well, I told you that. And you didn’t believe me.”

“I still don’t.”

Castiel glanced at him curiously. “You have no trust, Dean. Why?”

“It never works out for us, that’s why.”

Not quite sure what Dean meant by that, Castiel gave it some thought. Then he said to Sam, “One of the barns here is large enough to accommodate your stage. It will be totally hidden from sight, and considering this is not a very visited place, I presume your tangible property will be safe.”

“Tangible property,” Dean repeated mockingly and pat the stage wall. “No one ever called you that, baby.”

Castiel scowled at him, feeling he was missing the point. “This stagecoach bears no resemblance to a baby.”

“It’s what Dean calls the only love of his life,” Sam said, grinning. “Never mind.”

This sounded so ridiculous that Castiel had nothing to say but, “Oh. I see.” Still feeling perplexed, he shook his head and asked, “So…would you like to see the barn?”

Dean hesitated, but Sam gave his answer straight away, “Yes, reverend.”

Castiel nodded and turned to Dean, who was biting his lower lip with a stubborn expression on his face.

“Can’t wait to see it,” he said after a long moment. Then he jumped over the poles and headed to the barn, his back rigid with dignity and muted protest.

#

They had to unharness the horses and push the stage into the barn manually. Sam and Dean were probably strong enough to manage the task alone, but Castiel felt responsible for the initial idea and volunteered to help. All three worked together, in a joint effort, and once again, Castiel thought how odd it felt to a part of something beyond growing vegetables.

They barely talked, only dropped a word or two to ensure the stage moved where it should. Castiel caught himself thinking that he was content with this silence—for the last hour he had talked more than he had in days before. He couldn’t see Sam and Dean, but he heard them breathing heavily and rasping out commands. It appeared they didn’t need to speak much to understand each other.

The stage took the whole of the space in the barn, its roof nearly touching the wooden ceiling. It was so tight around it that Sam had to squeeze out along the wall, sniffing loudly. Dean giggled as he watched him.

“Your brothers in faith had an eye for sizing,” he said to Castiel. “This shed is like it is built to fit.”

“We used to keep a wagon here,” Castiel explained, “but it was smaller than your stage.“

“We?” Sam repeated, coming closer. “So you’ve been here back when…with the Mormons?”

Castiel winced and looked away. He didn’t have the slightest intention of talking about it and already cursed himself for saying so much.

“I believe you need to take some armor with you,” he said. “It’s your choice, but my advice would be to travel light.”

He stepped aside, giving them some privacy. Without a word, Dean disappeared inside the barn, and a few moments later, Castiel heard a distinctive clattering sound. When he looked back, there was a pile of rifles and knives towering on the ground. Sam stared at it too, frowning doubtfully.

“Good thing we don’t have a cannon,” he said.

Dean bridled at the remark. “I’m not going there bare-handed!”

“I’m not saying bare-handed. But rifles…that’s too much.”

“Rifles are never too much.”

Castiel came closer and knelt near the stacked armor. Then he took two knives (obviously silver-bladed) and put them aside.

“These would be sufficient,” he said in a calm voice. “The rest goes back.”

“No firearms? Damn, you must be kidding.”

“You have your Colt. It’s worth a dozen rifles.”

Dean shook his head. “Yeah, but not without…” he cut off abruptly and then went on, “All right, doesn’t matter. The Colt is…well, it’s great, and Sam has his gun too, so maybe you’ve got the point there. But I’d feel much safer with at least one rifle.”

“For what?” Castiel asked.

“For whatever. Hunting? We could hunt—I mean, hunt like hunt, rabbits and everything.”

“At Eldorado Canyon, there are no rabbits.”

“Wild goats? Badgers? Racoons? Um, mountain lions?”

“What do you need a mountain lion for, Dean?” Sam said. “It’s an awfully murderous beast.”

Dean shrugged innocently, “But it tastes like pork.”

This statement, combined with his serious, thoughtful expression, was almost funny. Castiel sighed and nodded.

“One rifle won’t do any harm,” he said, giving up, and was instantly rewarded by a thankful glance from Dean.

Packing the rest of the gear didn’t cause any further discussion, and the brothers even followed Castiel’s advice to change their defiant leather vests to something more neutral. Now, clad in simple shirts and neck-cloths, they looked more like adventurers, quite usual for this distant area. This primitive disguise probably couldn’t fool the demons, but it could win Sam and Dean some time at the start.

Castiel watched absent-mindedly as they filled their light sacks with necessary belongings, most of which he could not identify, then came food and water, and finally a few rolled-up blankets. The rifle Dean had bargained was wrapped up with a striped rug. Everything they had set up was mounted on two horses and tightened securely with belts and ropes. The other two got their saddles from the fort warehouse—old, but fully functional and reliable. Sam tied the horses in pairs.

“It seems, reverend, we have more horses than we need,” Sam said, waving at the remaining pair. “Can you ride?”

“Yes,” Castiel said.

Sam’s face brightened in no time. “So…will you? I mean, we’d appreciate if you joined us.”

“I will,” Castiel replied, “if you wish.” At this, he inadvertently glanced at Dean but failed to distinguish his expression. “I’ll bring along another saddle then.”

The horse he was given to ride turned out to be a strong, youthful animal with long slender legs and a shiny mane. Castiel couldn’t help rubbing her ears and caught his own reflexion in a big round eye staring at him. It had been a long while since he had touched a horse.

Sam cleared his throat.

“Do you need any help?”

“I’m all right,” Castiel said, leaping easily into the saddle. The horse moved under him, accepting the new weight, and Castiel chuckled softly, sending her ahead. “Will you please follow me, gentlemen.”

#

As they rode out, Castiel took the lead. He guessed his guidance was not actually needed, but intentionally moved slightly ahead of the brothers. He didn’t want to hear them discussing him.

They left the main trail and took a narrow route heading south, surrounded by rocky, brown-gray hills. The road was desert, the air hot with the afternoon sun. The wind was so faint that it was barely felt at all, and the sparse bushes alongside the dusty road were trembling and swinging, as though they were just an illusion of reality. The horses were at a loose rein, walking unhurriedly.

For about an hour, the three travelers rode in silence, their hats low on their faces. The heat was getting worse, making them cover their noses and mouths with the neck-cloths, and squint their eyes to protect them from direct light. Castiel felt his back was sweating under the coat and vest. Alone, he only walked in the early morning and at dusk, taking a long break midway to avoid the hottest part of the day.

“There is a creek nearby,” he said, reining in his horse. “Would you like to make a stop?”

Dean didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, let’s stop and get out of this Hell’s kitchen.”

Castiel led them away from the road, heading towards a few rocks standing a hundred feet to the right. Behind them, in a blessed shadow of a giant cactus, was a narrow creek, coming down from the hills. As most mountain streams, it was fast and very clean. Castiel dismounted first, and upon brief inspection, confirmed the water was safe to drink.

They took some time to water the horses, then filled mugs for themselves and sat down at the creek shore. Sam was sipping slowly, but Dean drank everything in one gulp, then reached out to fill another mug and splashed the water on his face, making a variety of content noises. Castiel watched them silently, hardly even touching his own water.

“You’re not thirsty?” Dean asked him.

“Not particularly.”

“Why?”

Castiel shrugged his shoulder. “I’m not new here, I’m used to the heat.”

“So you can do without water?” Sam said admiringly.

“Only for a certain time, Sam. Not very long.”

“That’s amazing, anyway.”

Castiel said nothing.

“You’re not a typical preacher, you know,” Dean said thoughtfully. “You ride a horse like a cavalry soldier, you take thirty-mile walks, you know of hunters…And I guess that’s a Deringer on your belt?”

Castiel flinched. “This—this is for self-defense.” He didn’t add that he only had got it a year before, after a vicious attack by some Mexican outlaws. They had nearly killed him, and since then, Castiel never traveled without his small but efficient gun.

“Have you used it?”

“Not yet. And I hope I won’t have to.”

Dean raised his eyebrow. “Is it so safe around here? So safe you keep your fort open and don’t give a damn?”

Castiel stared at him, tilting his head to the side. “Why not? There is nothing of any value.”

“Oh, well, nothing of value. Indians could argue that, couldn’t they?”

“Have you met any Indians, Dean?”

Dean shifted uneasily, apparently thinking of what to say. Sam gave him a smile and turned to Castiel.

“Have you, reverend?”

“On several occasions. This is the habitat of the Pah-Ute tribe—well, it used to be. They are, um, quite reasonable. Mostly.”

“Except when they are not,” Dean grinned sarcastically, taking his chance. “Or maybe you’ve set them to the path of righteousness?”

“This is not my mission,” Castiel replied in a flat voice. And to avoid the topic, he said, “Which reminds me…What is yours? What are you here for?”

Sam and Dean exchanged quick glances. Their expressions became cautious, they clearly hesitated to share their plans with a stranger. Castiel felt he’d been too forward with his question.

“We need to get something at Eldorado Canyon,” Sam said at last, “and bring it back.”

Castiel nodded slowly. “Something. All right.”

“Sorry,” Dean cut in, looking somewhat ashamed, “we just don’t think it’s safe to tell you everything.”

This wasn’t a complete truth, and Castiel sensed it. He sipped at his water and looked away. Dean drew a breath and moved an inch closer to him.

“Seriously, father Cas…uh, I mean—Castiel, it’s not the case for you to get involved into. It’s gonna be dangerous, and it’s not the right thing to force you…sort of…to help us. You don’t have to.”

“I should probably take it as a compliment,” Castiel noted, trying to hide his annoyance, “that you consider me able to help with your hunt. Which is obviously not accurate.”

“Please don’t take it personally,” Sam added hastily. “It’s not our mistrust or anything, it’s for your safety. You’ve helped us already, and we’re grateful for that.” He looked at his brother expectantly, “Dean, am I right?”

“What?” Dean asked as if taken off-guard. “Oh yeah. The rightest of right.” He halted and looked around as if trying to find some supportive evidence. Then glanced up with a crooked smile, “The thing is, it’s our job, a job we’ve been doing for life. We have no choice. But you do.”

Castiel met his gaze and suppressed a sad grin he’d been about to show. Certainly, Dean was speaking in good faith, and whatever his words were, even so awkwardly, his eyes weren’t lying. He meant what he’d said. He simply could not imagine that he was touching upon such a painful topic.

“Of course,” Castiel said, without specifying what this was referring to.

Apparently, Dean still felt that something was wrong, for he tightened his lips and said, “A hell of a paradox, isn’t it? We can’t share what we know to keep you safe, but you can share what you know for exactly the same reason.”

“I don’t understand you, Dean.”

“I’m trying to say,” Dean gestured uncertainly, “that if you tell us what you know of that place, it could help.”

Sam coughed loudly and rolled his eyes. “Dean…”

Castiel could not see what was wrong. “I know very little,” he said. “Only what the people coming to me say occasionally…Not much.”

“People come to you? To the church?”

“There’s no church in San Juan. They come to my place, to where I live.”

“And what for? You…” Dean stumbled, then went on, “You give sermons? Like, _in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_ and everything?”

“Not exactly,” Castiel said, wincing.

“Then what?”

“No sermon can heal a sickness.”

Sam rounded his eyes. “So you’re a healer?”

Castiel shook his head. “I’m not a practicing doctor, if this is what you’re asking about, but sometimes I succeed at helping people.” He ignored the two curious glances he was shot upon revealing this, and said, “Coming back to the matter. Eldorado Canyon is a common name for a relatively large territory alongside the Colorado river. There is the Upper Camp, where the miners live and work, and the town of San Juan, with a store, a saloon and the sheriff’s office. Which of these are you interested in?”

“Both,” Sam and Dean said at once.

“All right.” Castiel shifted to a more comfortable position and locked his arms around his knees. “I believe the main fact you need to know is the name of a man who holds the whole area under his control.”

Dean chuckled in disbelief, “Just one?”

“Yes. He has a team of…henchmen, but without him, they are nothing. He is the sheriff of San Juan.”

“Good to know,” Sam nodded. “And what’s his name?”

Castiel raised his head and said distinctly, making sure his every word was being heard, “His name is Fergus Roderick MacLeod. The locals call him Black Fergus, but he himself prefers a shorter name of undefined origin—Crowley.”

There he made a brief pause and added, “And he is a demon.”


	5. Doomed Town

They reached San Juan at late dusk, and by that time Sam and Dean knew everything Castiel could tell them. Which, surprisingly, turned out to be not so little—at least, it was more than they had expected and probably even more than they could fit into the plan.

At Castiel’s suggestion, they renounced their initial idea of pretending to be miners. Although it would be easier to play out, it could also significantly complicate the research, as other miners would be unlikely share anything with potential competitors. ‘These people are hard-working and ambitious,’ Castiel had said. ‘They may kill at the mere suspicion of interference with their business. In small camps, these things happen.’ He didn’t elaborate, but Dean somehow felt this wasn’t an exaggeration.

On second (or maybe third) thought, Dean came up with a new plan, elegant and simple—to impersonate merchants, commercial agents of a new mining factory. This role would allow them to ask questions they needed to ask, as these questions would appear to mean nothing but a natural business interest. Sam was moderately enthusiastic about the plan, for everything they knew about mining could be written down on a very small sheet of paper, and such ignorance always made him concerned. However, as Dean pressed on (with a little help from a few terms he luckily fished out from his memory), Sam gave up and agreed.

The town they entered was a small settlement, quite recently built. According to what Castiel had told them, San Juan was only about one year old. When silver had been discovered at the western shore of the Colorado river, the word spread out rather quickly. Miners rushed in, bringing their families, bags, and baggage, and formed a camp, and then a town. Later on, as more mines got developed, the town built its own processing factory to save on high transportation costs and to ease the refinery. The latter, quite expectantly, was the sole initiative of a new sheriff (and a mayor, and everything else)—Crowley.

Even after a year, the town still felt new. The only street stretched out eastward for a quarter mile, each side built with painted wooden buildings. Dean spotted a barber shop, then a general store with a _Miners’ Supplies_ sign on it. Facing it, there was a two-story saloon with a few horses tied to the standing. All the first-floor windows of it were lit. Dean pulled his horse, smiling in sweet anticipation.

“That’s exactly what we need.”

Castiel gave him a cool glance. “They have rooms to let upstairs.”

Sam giggled. “I’m not sure you’re talking about the same thing, father Castiel.” He pulled his horse too and asked, “Is there a stable?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. His expression remained distant and thoughtful as if he didn’t want to understand any jokes. “I’ll show you.”

They dismounted. Sam suggested he stay outside with the horses, so Dean and Castiel went in alone. A few people sitting around stopped drinking and looked at them, and Dean immediately noticed the difference in these looks—idly curious at himself, and genuinely respectful at Castiel. A heavyset man in a dirty apron stepped out from behind the bar to greet them.

‘This gentleman would like a double room,” Castiel said, pointing at Dean.

“You bet, reverend.” The saloon owner studied Dean from top to toe and asked, clearly still speaking to Castiel. “He’s got the coin?”

“Of course.”

The man nodded. “Good. Horses?”

“Of course,” Castiel repeated.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Dean felt he’d had enough. “Hey, I’m here,” he said, making a step forward. “Wanna talk to me?”

The saloon owner gave him an indifferent look. “Is he always like that?“

“As far as I can tell, yes,” Castiel replied with a tone of a parent making excuses for a naughty child. “He’s new here, Joshua.”

The man called Joshua sighed. “All right then.” At last, he dignified Dean with a direct gaze. “The stable’s in the back yard. Hay’s six dollars per day, pay upfront. Your room’s upstairs, second to the left. No girls, no booze, no firing. You break or steal anything, you pay twice. That clear?”

The sequence he put his warnings in was almost hilarious, but Dean was too angry to laugh at it.

“Yeah.” He fished a few coins from his pocket and handed them to Joshua. “Thanks for a warm welcome.”

He turned, expecting to find Castiel behind him, but there was no one. Dean began to twirl, looking around, glancing over the heads, peering at the bar counter and into the corners. The preacher was gone—as if he hadn’t been there.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered, not quite sure whether he was swearing at the disappeared preacher or himself for letting that happen.

He went outside. Sam was waiting for him, patting the snorting horses. Castiel wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

“Have you seen him?” Dean asked, stepping down from the porch.

“Whom? The preacher?”

“Yeah. Damn, I can’t believe it. We stood there just like that,” Dean measured out a foot with his arms, “And next moment he’s like—puff! Gone without the wind.”

Sam burst out into laughter. “You’re so romantic, you know?” Then, seeing Dean squinting at the mockery, he forced himself to go on, “I haven’t noticed him sneaking out, but I was busy with the horses. Let’s see if his sack is still here…”

Sam and Dean rounded the standing and came up to the horse Castiel had been riding. The sack that had been attached to the saddle earlier had vanished.

#

The room they had got was shabby and smelt of stale sweat and burnt food. The walls had suspicious brown stains, and two narrow beds were unmade. Dean bent down and drew a dead rat from under one of them. He hurled it to the window and faced Sam.

“Hope the others had their dinner already,” he said.

“I wouldn’t rely on that.” Sam looked gloomily around and pursed his lips. “Even the stable was better.”

Dean shrugged with a fake nonchalance.

“You said we need to leave the stage. All right, we left it.”

“Dean, not again.”

Dean sniffed but said nothing. There was no use (and no need) to discuss anything about their room, or the journey, or the case. The decision was made, and the hunters’ code Dean had always been following said no to anyone’s changing mind.

They unpacked what they considered safe to be left visible and went downstairs.

While they were away, the crowd in the saloon grew from a few people to about two dozen. Most of them were sitting at a larger table by the hearth, drinking and talking briskly. A small group had a clear leader in it, a strong man in his forties, dressed in a black coat and a peak cap. His small grayish beard ridged ferociously, bright observant eyes never stopped browsing the saloon and spotting newcomers. Dean knew that type of person—they could make the best friends or the worst enemies.

He nodded to Sam, and they sat down at the table next to the group. Joshua brought them two steaks and whiskey.

“Nice town,” Dean said cheerfully taking his first bite. He realized they were being listened to and spoke in a deliberately loud voice. “Mines gotta be rich here.”

“Why do you think so?” Sam asked, catching up with the game.

“Well, so many folks around…Good people, good steaks. All good. It was the right place to come to.”

“Yeah.”

“And the business must be flourishing.”

“Sure.”

“Does it have a silver mill?”

Sam shrugged. “I guess so? We might need to ask someone.”

They paused, letting the group of miners draw their conclusions on what they’d certainly heard. It didn’t take long for their leader to turn around and break in.

“What’re you coming at?” he said with a hostile squint. “What’s that you’re nosing about?”

Dean shot him his most genuine smile. “Nothing, sir. We’re just talking.”

“Talking mining business?” He narrowed his eyebrows. “So what’s in there for you?”

“We’re merchants,” Sam told him. “We came to…explore the opportunities.”

“Oh, opportunities? Like, hooking out about the silver lodes and kicking us out? No dice.”

“Right the opposite,” Dean said, “if you’d like to listen.”

Dean met his glare steadily and unblinking. This ‘I’m not after your trust, but I can offer mine’ look had always worked well. The miners exchanged quick whispers, then someone pulled the leader’s sleeve.

“Let him talk, Benny.”

Benny frowned, snorted, then slowly sipped at his whiskey.

“Why the hell should I?”

“It can bring you profit.” Dean moved his chair to face them. “Gentlemen, my partner told you the truth. We’re not miners. We’re not after your feet or ledges or shafts. We only need samples of silver ore.” This was risky, but a moment later Dean felt he’d hit the target.

“What for?”

“To offer a better price, of course.”

A long, tense silence followed. All at once, the miners stopped talking. They got so quiet they didn’t even seem to breathe. Dean heard the dishes clattering in the kitchen behind the bar and distant horse snickering.

“For free?” Benny said.

“We pay the market price,” Sam said. “In cash or silver dollars, whichever you prefer.”

There was a soft hustle around the group, some people moved closer, some even got up to come nearer. Benny slid his hat up and nodded approvingly.

“Go on.”

“We’re considering building a new quartz mill here,” Sam started in a quick, lowered voice. The legend he was telling wasn’t ideal, but it was as good as any other. Castiel had told them that miners hardly ever left the surroundings of their camps, and only traveled to the town to spend their cash. The existence of a new mill could not be checked on and therefore would not be placed in doubt. “We’ve already built one halfway to Fort Mohave, and the other one closer to Los Angeles, and they are doing quite well. Both are too far from this place, so once we knew about it, we thought it might be profitable to build a mill right here. And we’re not some low-grade agents, we work for an established company. The owner is very positive about Eldorado Canyon mines. If the samples are all right, and everything goes well here, for the first few months, while the business develops, he’s even agreed to raise the buy price.”

Benny smirked, “He’s crazy.”

“He’s generous,” Dean said with an innocent look. “He is…what’s the word?”

“Maecenas?” Sam suggested.

“Yeah, Maecenas. Spent an insane money for the mining industry already. You might have heard of him, it’s Mr. Singer. Robert S. Singer.”

This hadn’t been agreed on, but Dean hoped Sam would bear with this sudden improvisation, safe enough, as no one here could know Bobby’s name.

“Doesn’t ring a bell. And you two are?”

“Blunt and Lane,” Dean said without hesitation, “from Singer & Sons.” Sam cast him a disapproving glance, but Dean kept his face.

At last, the miner held out his hand.

“So, well. I’m Benny Lafitte. How much ore do you need?”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lafitte,” Sam said, returning the handshake. Dean followed him in a moment. “Would you mind giving us some background first? For reporting purposes.”

Benny peered meaningfully into his empty glass. Dean waved to Joshua, asking for more whiskey. When the glasses got filled again, Benny gulped his and looked at Dean.

“So. What d’ya wanna know?”

Sam took out a small notepad. “How many mines do you have here?”

“Six.”

“All developed?”

“Yeah. Used to have two more, but they got closed after a couple of months. Mined out. Not a single speck of silver.”

“This happens,” someone from the group added, “when the ledge estimate is wrong. First, they tell you there are acres of silver-rich ore. All right, you buy your feet, start digging, and all you get is just a lousy dollar a ton.”

“I see.” Sam pretended to take a note and went on, “And where’s the mill that you use?”

“Right in the Upper Camp,” Benny said, wincing. “Keeps us home, y’know.”

Exactly as Castiel had said, Dean noted to himself. Then he asked, “How rich is raw ore here?”

“A quarter of silver, give or take.”

Sam frowned a little—presumably, he still had some knowledge about the mining business. “Only a quarter? I—I trust you, just never seen a site with less than a third, actually.”

“Black Fergus said it gotta be a third to a half. That’s Eldorado, he said. But as he sold his mines and started the refinery…He did the assaying, and then he said the ore had less silver and more base metals in it.”

Even knowing nothing about the silver, Dean couldn’t help but admit that the elegance and virtuosity of this cheating were amazing. “So what does he pay you for the ore?”

“About seven dollars a pound.”

“Not much.” Dean had no idea of the actual prices, but assuming who was running the business, the buy price had to be set too low. “It’s gotta be ten at least. ”

Benny drew a short dry laughter. “Tell that Black Fergus. He owns the mill, and he sets the price.”

“And you agree?”

“What’s left?” a miner from behind Benny’s back said. “I’ll tell you what. You’re not the first, folks. We had agents coming to San Juan three of four times. Talked better prices, said we’d get rich…Just like you.”

“Oh, really?” Sam said. “And what happened? Didn’t they keep their promise?”

The miner spat on the floor.

“No one’s ever seen them again.”

Dean felt a shiver ran down his spine.

“So this Black Fergus doesn’t like competition?” he asked.

“If he were in town, we wouldn’t even be talking to you,” Benny said. “Don’t take me wrong, brother, but his watchdogs are everywhere. You say a thing he doesn’t like, you’re a dead man.”

Dean forced out a grin. “We’ll take a risk.” He took his whiskey and had a good gulp. “It’s a free country, Benny.”

“It depends.”

The conversation was taking a dangerous path, and Dean picked up a safer topic.

“Can I see the Colorado river from the Upper Camp? I’ve heard the view is stunning.”

“It’s just a river,” Benny said. “And it’s a few miles eastward from the camp.”

“And the camp is something like five miles away from here, right?” Sam said, taking his notepad again.

“I thought you just came to town.”

“We met your preacher on the way.”

Benny’s face momentarily brightened. “Oh, father Cas? He’s a good man. Even Fergus doesn’t dare touch him.”

This was something ‘father Cas’ had forgotten to mention, Dean thought.

“Why not?” he asked out of curiosity.

Benny laughed, bending his large head low, nearly touching the table with his pointed chin. “Fergus is no fool. He needs people to work at his mines and mill, not scare them away. So he plays nice. Keeps up a decent appearance. And what,” he glared at Dean, “could be more respectable than having a preacher in his town?”

#

Next morning, after having their breakfast (of relatively safe boiled eggs and lukewarm coffee) they set off to visit the mining camp. Benny volunteered to guide them to the site, and although Sam kept saying he didn’t trust anyone in this town, he had to agree they needed a local to accompany them.

So far, there was no evidence of Crowley’s ‘watchdogs’, as Benny had named them, around the saloon, but the moment after the three of them left the town of San Juan, Dean felt a distinctive sense of relief. It was too nice, too well-cared, too transparent, but the houses were hovering over visitors, ruthless and hostile, ready to squeeze the air out of them. Now that this suffocating sensation was left behind, Dean was enjoying their easy ride. A carriage-wide road was winding between rust-colored rocks and rare bushes, and the sky was bright blue with small spots of clouds above the horizon. It nearly seemed impossible to encounter anything evil on a day and road like this.

They didn’t talk on the way. Benny led them silently, without even checking if they were following. He only turned back twice—first to warn Dean about a muddy creek, and second—to announce their arrival.

“Eldorado Canyon,” he said, waving around.

The settlement was only about a hundred yards wide. Two dozen canvas tents were sitting on the rocks, like birds’ nests, each having its own fireplace with steaming pots, hanging over the charcoal. A few women were attending their small kitchens, others washed and hung up their families’ clothes. Three children were playing some unknown game, tossing up small stones, and laughing happily as they fell back on the ground. No adult men were seen anywhere.

“The men are at work,” Benny said, answering Dean’s bewildered gaze. “The mines are over there.”

Sam and Dean looked in the direction he had pointed towards. At a distance from the camp, at the root of the rocks, they saw a few wooden sheds about fifty feet from each other and a cart half loaded with roughly-shaped dark-gray prills. Beside each shed, in plain sight, there was a rigid figure of a soldier-like man with a rifle. The guardians stood motionless, just cast around occasional lazy looks. Dean wasn’t able to see their eyes, but he felt he knew what color they could get.

“Awesome,” he grumbled. “Now I see the dogs. And where’s their master?”

Benny smirked, “He doesn’t visit very often. He needs the ore, not the sweat.” He turned back and saw where Dean was looking. “Don’t even think of it, brother,” he warned. “They shoot without notice.”

So this wasn’t just scenery, Dean thought, the demons had their rifles on purpose. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” he said to Benny. “Can we have a closer look or will they shoot anyway?”

“Depends on how close,” Benny grinned. “Maybe they won’t.”

They dismounted, and Benny tied the horses to a free standing near the first tent. Sam and Dean had their guns and knives holstered. Benny appeared to be unarmed, but his bluffing face was calm and steady. The face of a man who had seen too much to ever worry about nonsense.

Walking at a leisurely pace, they crossed the camp and approached the mining site. The whole area was paled, and its thick fence had the only gate wide enough for a cart (but not for a stagecoach, Dean noted to himself). Near the gate, a two-feet wide sign was nailed. Quite predictably, it said, ‘Trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again.’

“All the mine shafts are here?” Sam asked.

Benny nodded and raised his chin to point them out. “Yeah, the six of them, like I told you. Black Fergus calls them MacLeod’s Glory, damned romantic.”

“Isn’t Eldorado gorgeous enough?” Dean said.

“Maybe he just didn’t want a name from the map,” Sam supposed.

“Bingo. He wanted his own bloody name, that’s it.” Benny faced the mines again and added, “Each mine has its name here, but that’s kinda a usual thing.”

“And what are the names?” Dean said, pretending he knew how usual that was.

“Well…From left to right, they are The Mountain Throne, Lance and Shield, Old Scotch, Smoky Fire, Southern Beauty, and Merry Andrew.”

Dean whistled with admiration, “He’s a true poet, your Black Fergus. And the other two? The closed ones?”

“They are just behind that rock, next door to the mill,” Benny said, waving uncertainly to the right. “Juliette’s Kiss and The Great Ramsey.”

“The Great Ramsey,” Dean repeated with a chuckle. “Who the hell is that Ramsey anyway?”

“I’ve no idea,” Benny said. “A friend? A Scottish relative of his?” He shrugged and shook his hands as if getting rid of invisible dust. “All right, I gotta go back to work.”

“Just one more question,” Sam said, stopping him. “Can you sell us the raw ore samples we need?”

“I only have a share at Merry Andrew,” Benny said, quickly putting back his business tone. “For that you can have my word, for other mines I’m gonna ask the folks. How much do you need?”

“Well, let me see…” Sam rolled his eyes, as though performing some entangled mental calculations, then said, “To make the assaying correctly…About thirty pounds from each mine would be enough.”

“At twelve dollars a pound,” Dean added, winking.

Benny turned on his heels and reached out for a handshake. He was smiling.

“I’m in.”

#

As Benny left for the mines, Sam and Dean had no more reason to stay at the camp any longer. They left a coin for a boy who had watered their horses and headed back to the town.

“What do you think of Benny?” Dean asked when they were a mile away from the camp.

“He seems all right,” Sam said somewhat reluctantly.

“But?”

“No buts. Just…he has his own interest, we gotta remember that. But anyway, I’d prefer having him as an ally, not otherwise.” Sam rubbed his forehead. “I think he has doubts now.”

“About Crowley’s business? Damn, he should. Even I have doubts.” Dean pulled a horse for a moment. “Look. I see Crowley’s cheating as well as I can see this horse. The question is, if he’s cheating only at the prices or at something else too.”

“Like what?”

“Like the whole thing with this mill. The miners don’t seem very happy, but they’re playing his game, right? They work and get paid, maybe not as good as they should, but paid, and they have their mines. Rocks, and mud, and base metals whatever these are, and a quarter of silver. So why would Crowley guard this mining camp like a bloody jewel-house?”

“Maybe because he’s a demon? I don’t know, Dean. Not yet.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean sent his horse ahead, then said, “By the way, we’ve just promised these folks two thousand dollars.”

“And how much do we have?”

“About half.”

Sam gave him a suspicious look. “You don’t think about gambling here, do you?”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t mix work with pleasure.”

“Good. That wouldn’t be fair, to pay them with their own money.”

Fair play was probably the last thing that worried Dean at the moment, but he nodded. He knew Sam wasn’t sympathetic to some of his methods.

They didn’t discuss the case anymore. By the afternoon, they were back in San Juan, and right from the town’s entrance, as they left a handwritten sign behind, they felt something had changed here. The main street and houses looked the same as before, but there were no people around, and no shouting or horse neighs were heard. It was so unnaturally quiet that the town appeared abandoned. Even the Mormon fort they had visited recently, didn’t have such a lifeless, doomed atmosphere. Dean scowled at an empty street, trying to get rid of the distinct scent of trouble.

“Do you feel the same?” Sam said, anxiously looking around. “What’s that?”

Dean said nothing.

They reached the saloon and brought their horses into the stable. The main hall was also empty, but Dean told himself it was just too early for a drink, at least for locals who were still at work. Slowly, with particular caution, and with their guns at hand, they came upstairs.

Their room seemed intact, but a thin string Sam had put above the door lock was lying on the floor.

Sam and Dean took their positions around the door and froze for the moment, listening. Inside, it was very quiet, the visitor, whoever it happened to be, was either already gone, or wasn’t even breathing. Dean nodded to Sam, raised his gun, and jerked the door open.

Dean’s finger stopped at the trigger as he saw a figure in a light-brown coat in the middle of the room. It took him less than a second to recognize who it was.

“Damn!” he gasped, “Someday I’ll shoot you.”

Castiel turned to him, his hands still in his pockets. He frowned a little, tilted his head aside, as if in surprise, then nodded.

“Hello, Dean,” he said. “Sam. I was waiting for you. We need to talk.”


	6. Close Encounters

Castiel watched as Sam and Dean unloaded their armor onto a shaky table. The Colt came last, its black barrel touching the wood with a dull, heavy sound. The gun was in perfect condition, very well-cared, all engravings clear and polished. Castiel came closer and reached out.

“May I?”

Dean hesitated a moment, then nodded, “Yeah.”

Castiel bent his head thankfully and took the gun, still warm from Dean’s hand. Holding it on his palm, he ran his fingers along the barrel, rubbing the inscribed words occasionally. He didn’t have to read them—he knew them well enough. _Non timebo mala_ , the Latin for _I will fear no Evil_.

“For thou art with me,” he muttered, finishing the sentence of the psalm. In his past days, he had used it more often, but now the words felt strange on his tongue. He put the Colt back on the table carefully and glanced up at Sam and Dean. “Crowley is back in town.”

“That’s why it looks like the damned Apocalypse,” Dean said, then asked defiantly, “So?”

Castiel suppressed a sigh. “So you have to be aware of it,” he said. “He knows you are here.”

“All right, then we’re equal.”

“You are not,” Castiel shook his head and pointed at the Colt, “Even with this.”

Sam followed his gaze. “Is he so powerful? I mean, for a demon?”

It wasn’t easy to explain without telling them too much. Castiel still had no idea of what had brought the brothers here, and sincerely hoped their case wouldn’t take long to solve.

“He is not a usual kind of demon, Sam. He used to be…I believe, you call them deal-makers.”

“Crossroads demon?”

“Exactly.”

“And what made him move to this Garden of Eden?” Dean put in. “I haven’t even seen a crossroads here.”

“He had his reasons, I suppose. This actually does not make any difference, but what does,” Castiel paused a little, “is that once he knows about you, your lives are not worth a rush.”

At this, Sam frowned, and Dean pursed his lips. Once again, looking at their expressions, Castiel thought this wasn’t fear—maybe anger and slight bewilderment, clearly dominated by anger. He looked at Dean, who was standing closer, trying to distinguish his true reaction, but as their stares met, Dean quickly averted his.

“You met the miners yesterday,” Castiel said, for a change of subject.

This wasn’t a question, but Dean raised his eyebrow.

“I don’t remember seeing you at the saloon.”

“It’s a small town, Dean. Probably the smallest compared to any town you’ve visited before. In such a secluded place, people have no other entertainment other than watching and discussing others. They notice everything. Now, you and Sam are the leading topic of the day. So…” at this, he looked up, “So, was this meeting educational for you?”

Dean took a moment to think, then said, “Well, the legend worked fine.”

Castiel squinted at him, feeling reluctant to speak. They still mistrusted him, maybe even more than before (which was puzzling, as Castiel didn’t see any reason for that), and didn’t want to share any news. Himself, he knew nothing but what he had said already, and although he did not realize entirely why it was important, he simply felt it certainly was.

The silence was getting awkwardly long. Dean kept standing motionless beside the table, staring at the floor. Finally, Sam sat on a bed, puffing up a little cloud of dust, took off his hat and put it on his knee.

“What kind of deals is Crowley making here?” he asked, breaking the silence. “Souls in exchange for rich silver lodes?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said. He actually didn’t—in a faint belief that his ignorance would serve him as protection from Crowley.

Dean rubbed the corner of the table with his fingers. “Thought you’re kinda friends with him.”

This was something Castiel totally did not expect.

“What made you think so?” he asked, taken aback.

“Research,” Dean said, shrugging.

“Benny Lafitte told us Crowley is sort of…loyal to a preacher in town,” Sam added, obviously trying to soften the blow of Dean’s remark.

Castiel clenched his fists inside his pockets.

“He told you I was Crowley’s friend?”

“Not really, but—”

At least, it wasn’t Benny. Though harsh and straightforward, Benny was an honest man, not given to exaggeration.

“I’m not anyone’s friend here,” Castiel said very slowly, “especially Crowley’s.”

Dean tightened his mouth and chewed his cheek from the inside. He appeared somewhat uncertain, although it was hard to tell whether it was embarrassment or hesitation.

“Well,” he faltered out. “All right.”

This didn’t add any clarity to the degree of trust Castiel could expect. Neither did it make any sense to go on with this ridiculous conversation where no party wished to talk.

“All right,” Castiel repeated, inadvertently mirroring both Dean’s words and his tone. In spite of all the annoyance he felt, he tried to remind himself that he barely knew these people, they owed him nothing and clearly didn’t even want his help. He had to stop thrusting himself into their company immediately, had to know his place. Most probably, they would do better without him. He had to leave—and leave right now, before he regretted it.

All these arguments were impeccably strong and reasonable, but Castiel didn’t feel convinced. Even after three years, he wasn’t good enough at listening to the voice of reason.

He stepped away from the table and headed towards the door. At the doorstep, he halted for a moment and said without looking back, “Be careful.”

#

At denying being anyone’s friend, Castiel wasn't entirely honest. Actually, there was someone—or rather something—he could possibly call a friend. He wasn’t sure, though, if the other party had the same feelings about him, but there certainly were some feelings in place, and he didn’t care too much which exactly.

Meg Masters was standing at her usual place near the bar, leaning saucily onto the counter with one elbow. Her whole figure, from the black and red striped dress (too tight at the waist and too open in the front) to a loose hairstyle, demonstrating her shiny dark hair running around a heart-shaped face, was radiating lust and challenge with an almost charming impudence. Her eyes were half closed with long lashes, as she studied her polished nails with a pretended indifference, not paying the outer world the slightest attention. She never had to move to attract her clients—and therefore, she had never made an effort to.

Castiel approached to greet her.

“My sweet unicorn,” Meg smiled to him. “Long time no see.”

“Actually, it’s only been two days, Meg.”

“For me, it’s been ages. I missed you.” She brushed his sleeve and frowned, “You walked to your stupid fort again?”

“It’s not stupid,” Castiel said. “And I had to check on the beehives.”

Meg curled her lips. “You’re hopeless. They’ve left you out to dry, and you still care for their stuff. This is _ridiculous_.”

Castiel could not help but smile at this well-hidden care. Meg had always said what she meant, and sometimes she was even too ruthless, but without her, he would probably have long been dead.

“Meg, please.”

“Please—what? Don’t you tell me to stop, _father_.” The way she said this ‘father’ was quite conspicuous. They had already had this argument more than once, with each party eventually remaining unconvinced, but Meg was as stubborn as she was good-looking, and kept on scolding Castiel for his devotion. “Are you sure you’ve picked the right job?”

“No.” He genuinely wasn’t—as he wasn’t sure he ever had any choice at all. “But you don’t have to worry about me.”

“I do, otherwise you’ll get into trouble. And you know that.”

In fact, he did. “I had a ride on my way back.”

Meg raised her corked eyebrow. “Your Lord’s finally got around to sending you a horse?”

“Not the Lord,” Castiel said, wincing. “There were…there were two travelers. They had a spare horse.”

“Aren’t they the folks from the room upstairs?”

It had never made any sense to hide anything from her, so Castiel nodded, “Yes.”

“Cute boys.” Suddenly, Meg looked up, and for the moment, her eyes flashed solid black. “It’s a pity they won’t last long.”

Castiel’s back tensed. He straightened up and said, “Why not?”

Meg’s eyes were back to usual again, but as she kept staring at Castiel, he sensed a very familiar uneasiness. He’d often felt she was seeing him beyond skin and bone. “Why should you care?”

“They mean no harm,” he said without getting into detail.

Meg laughed briefly. “Well, Crowley definitely doesn’t think so.”

That was what he had feared. Although Castiel still didn’t know whether the danger was coming from Crowley’s business side, ready to fight competition, or his demon entity, he had to alert the hunters. There was no more doubt that the danger was coming.

“Did he say anything?” he asked, trying to keep his voice flat.

“Not to me anyway,” Meg said with a shrug, and her naked shoulder nearly touched Castiel. After a long silence, she added, “But I can make an educated guess.”

“I would appreciate that, Meg.”

She leaned closer, looking him in the eye. “If you tell me what’s your interest.”

He would like to know that himself.

“I—I have no particular interest,” he said.

Meg wrinkled her nose. “Oh no. I know that look, Castiel. You do have an interest, I see that as well as I can see you.” She took his hand and squeezed it between hers, warm and soft, so much like a human’s. “Tell me, you want to leave with them?”

“What? No. Of course, no.”

“Good. ‘Cause Crowley won’t let you go.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. He suddenly regretted Joshua wasn’t at his place. “I am not leaving here, Meg. With or without anyone. I will stay as long as this town needs me, but this has nothing to do with Crowley.”

“What sweet charity,” Meg grinned. “This town doesn’t deserve such an angel.”

“I’m no angel.”

Meg was clearly about to go on arguing when a loud noise from somewhere above interrupted her. There were the sounds of blows, and hasty steps, and muffled cries—the sounds of a fight.

Instantly forgetting Meg and their conversation, Castiel rushed to the staircase. In less than a few moments, he was upstairs, by the second door to the left.

It stood half open, and it was obvious the fight was taking place right there. Castiel shook his right arm, making the blade he usually kept inside his sleeve slide down and settle in hand. The Deringer went to the left one, fully loaded. All prepared, Castiel kicked the door with his toe.

The room he had left just recently now seemed twice as small because of the several people crowding all over it. It wasn’t even clear how many of them there were fighting. At first glance, Castiel counted six, but he could had been mistaken by one or two. In one quick move, he holstered his gun away—firing in such a mess could damage friends rather than enemies.

He recognized some of the attackers. These were Crowley’s henchmen, cheapjack villains he hired to run his mill and guard the office, brutal and incredibly strong. Each of them could kill an ox with their bare hands without breaking a sweat. And now, two of these beasts were pinning Sam to the wall, and another one held Dean bent to the floor with a twisted arm, and three more were approaching with the knives in their hands.

Castiel plunged into the battle mutely, his mind blind with long-forgotten rage. His blade speared into someone’s flesh, ripping it apart, his free fist fetched blow after blow, crashing bones and denting muscles. His knuckles started to bleed, the fingers on his right hand became slippery with the blood on the blade’s hilt. He got hit himself and nearly fell, but immediately staggered back to his feet, fighting his way forward, where Dean was panting, struggling to get out of a suffocating grip. For a moment, it seemed to work out. There were only a few feet left, but as Castiel made a movement to shorten this distance, he felt something hitting his back between the shoulder blades with a force of a sledgehammer. He gasped and screamed in pain, and his hand let go of the armor. He heard someone shouting out his name but failed to determine whose voice that was. The sounds got distant and vague, the daylight faded out, and at last, he fell on the floor, deafened and breathless.

#

The voices appeared first, or maybe it was someone’s heavy breathing on his face, unusually close as if it came in from a foot away. The voices sounded muffled and a little worried.

“Castiel? Father? Dammit…Come on, Cas, open your eyes…”

“I don’t think he hears you, Dean.”

“Like hell he doesn’t…”

A hand slapped Castiel’s cheeks. It was gentle but very persistent, and he turned his face away from it.

“Look! I told you, he’s alive.”

Castiel wasn’t so sure about it, but he was glad the hand stopped slapping him. He licked his lips, tasting the tinny savor of blood.

“All right, unicorn, that’s not your favorite drink.” Now that was a woman speaking. Meg, he guessed, it could only be Meg. “Back off, boys.” Something rustled above him, and a breath of wind cooled his skin as Meg sat down beside him. He felt her small hand sliding along his collar and getting hold of the neck. “Castiel, wake up.”

“Get your rotten hands off him!” This was Dean, Castiel recognized his low voice, impatient and angry.

“Or what? Come on, shut up. These rotten hands saved your pathetic lives.”

“Don’t remember asking you.”

Castiel opened his eyes. He saw Meg, leaning over him and smiling, then Sam and Dean towering behind her back. None of the attackers were in sight anymore, and turning his head sideways, Castiel realized why—their bodies were lying on the floor around them, forming an almost ideal star shape, like chips of a splintered log. From his place, he couldn’t tell if all of them were dead, but they certainly weren’t posing any threat.

“What happened?” he asked. “Meg, did you..?”

“If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t even bother.”

She reached out and wiped Castiel’s forehead with the back of her hand. There was some blood left on it, and he wondered what he had missed. Sam and Dean had blood on their hands and faces too, but seemed to have no serious injuries. Meg was predictably all right, apart from her dress, all spotted and slightly torn at the bottom. Castiel had never thought why she had only preferred red and black colors in her clothing. Now he knew why.

Still feeling shaky, he sat, then attempted to get up. Dean and Sam grabbed his arms to help him. As he straightened his back, he had to grit his teeth not to scream again—the blow he’d got, quite unluckily, had hit one of his old wounds and was still causing pain. There would be a bruise, he thought, and he’d come off lightly if he only suffered a bruise.

“You feeling all right?” Dean said, looking at him sharply.

“Yes.”

“Never imagined you could fight like that. A desperado preacher, huh?” He picked up the blade from the floor. “A nice toy. Solid silver, right?”

“Yes.” Castiel took his blade from Dean and quickly hid it back in his sleeve. He turned to Meg, forcing out a little smile, “Thank you. I’m sorry about your dress.”

Meg waved dismissively, “That’s nothing. Not the first time, not the last.” Then she faced Sam and Dean, “And what about you two? Too proud to even thank me for helping?”

Dean hastily looked away. Sam hesitated, uncertain which party to join.

“Sorry, ma’am…But you were fighting like a…like a demon?” he said at last.

Meg laughed cheerily. “Oh, you’re literate enough to know metaphors, big boy? That’s lovely, but not necessary.” And before Castiel could stop her, she blinked, showing them her black eyes, and reached out with a quick gesture.

Sam staggered back, nearly knocking Dean down, then both of them leaped over the room and clung to the opposite wall. For a moment, they froze wide-eyed, paralyzed by terror and disgust.

Meg snapped her fingers, releasing them. “The show’s over, boys.”

Dean growled a curse, Sam kept staring silently. Castiel could easily imagine what they were thinking.

“Meg won’t hurt you,” he said.

“She’s a demon,” Dean threw, reaching out to his knife.

“She’s a friend.”

“Oh, really? You have the worst taste in friends, father Cas.”

Meg didn’t need his protection, but Castiel stepped aside to put himself between her and the brothers.

“Apparently, you don’t know any colors but black and white, Dean.”

“I know when black is black.” His voice was still harsh and trembling with anger, but the knife slowly went down. “So…this demon’s a friend,” Dean repeated through his teeth. “No more denial about having demon friends, huh? All right. I gotta remember that.”

Meg yawned and shrugged. “You’d better do, in case you need me again. ‘Cause alone you’re not worth anything.” She turned to Castiel, smiling, “Well, I guess you don’t need me here anymore, unicorn.”

“Indeed, he doesn’t. I do.”

All four of them turned their heads to where this new voice was coming from.

With his unfailing adherence to solid black, Crowley barely stood out against the dark walls but seemed genuinely untroubled about it. He was seated at the table, his shortish legs criss-crossed, one hand hidden behind the suit lapel, the other holding a cigar. He looked so ordinary that one could mistake him for a post-office clerk, thrown out of the house by a jealous wife. Purposefully lacking any classical demonic splendor, Crowley preferred other ways of self-expression.

“And who the hell is _that_?” Dean muttered.

Crowley shot him an indifferent look.

“The best of Hell, as a matter of fact. You summoned me, as you mention it. Oh, wait…You didn’t summon me, did you? Well, let’s say, I took the liberty of coming on my own.”

Sam and Dean shared a worried glance.

“Are you…Crowley?” Sam asked.

“It’s Mr. Crowley for you, Little John,” Crowley said with a scornful expression. “And as for you and Robin Hood over there, please do me a favor. Shut up.” Obviously enjoying himself, he took out his cigar and puffed out a cloud of dense smoke at Meg. “You’ve killed my men.”

Meg shifted uneasily, her face color fading rapidly.

“In self-defense.”

“Really? And since when does your _self_ include the preacher and these two little toads? Did I miss something?”

Everyone was silent. Castiel stared at Meg, ready to intrude. He knew he would never win the battle, but he also knew he had to try.

“Your men attacked these people without reason,” he said.

Crowley gave him a gracious, almost pitiful smile. “This is ridiculous, Castiel. Of course, they had a reason. They had my order.”

“What for?”

“Naturally, for my greater safety. Listen, I’m gone from here for one day, just one! And two bloody hunters are already nesting in my town like they’re at home! Isn’t that outrageous?” His dark eyes wandered from Castiel to Meg and then back to Castiel as if really seeking some kind of support. When no one answered, Crowley drew out a regretful sigh, “Splendid. Now you even don’t talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Meg said.

“In fact, there is.” Crowley stopped smiling and looked her straight in the eye. “I thought, we had an agreement. An honest deal, sealed with all kinds of blood. I abide you and your clerical mate, and you keep away from my business. Am I accurate with the terms and conditions here? Or maybe there is some hidden clause that I missed?”

“Damn you, Crowley.”

“How discourteous. You are getting boring, Meg. Get lost.” He snapped his fingers, in a similar way Meg had done it earlier, and within an instant, she disappeared from the room without a trace. “Women…” Crowley sighed. “You deal with them once, you regret it for the rest of your life.” Thoughtfully, he looked at the bodies on the floor. “These were blithering idiots, I agree, but where, for my sake, am I’m gonna get new ones?” With another finger snap, he sent all the corpses away. “Blasted nuisance.”

“Try paying them better,” Dean put in. “Just try for once, huh?”

For a moment, Crowley was silent, then he raised his eyebrows and suddenly burst out laughing.

“You are clearly obsessed with robbing the rich to feed the poor. Do you know how the true story ended? The sheriff won, and the Forest Brotherhood was hanged. A sheriff always wins.” He shrugged in fake desolation. When he went on, his voice had all of his usual sarcasm back, “They had more money than you’d ever dreamed of having in your fancy leather pants. They’d had less brains, though…They were loyal, but not very smart.”

“The best that you son of a bitch deserves,” Dean snapped.

“Figuratively, yes. My precious mother had the same opinion until she stopped having any opinions whatsoever.” He took his dead cigar and lit it again with his index finger. “By the way, in all fairness, your associate is not much better. An exile, a pariah, cast out by his own people…Am I right, Castiel?” He paused, giving Castiel a questioning look. “Oh, no…You haven’t told them, have you? These pure, innocent souls still don’t know what an ally they’ve got?”

If only Castiel could kill with a stare, Crowley would be dead about three times already. Maybe even four, taking into account what he had said about Meg.

“That’s it,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Stop it.”

“Actually, I’m just getting started.” Crowley glanced at Sam and Dean, who stood silent and frowning, obviously trying to prepare themselves for even more bad news. “You think he’s a real preacher? Nothing of the kind. Your father Castiel, your righteous guarding angel, is just a cheap impostor.”

Sam cleared his throat. “What’s he saying, reverend? Is it…he’s lying, isn’t he?”

Dean wasn’t even looking up, and Castiel made himself meet only Sam’s eye.

“No.”

Sam scowled, visibly disappointed. “So…so what are you?”

Castiel was silent, both terrified and ashamed to speak. Crowley took the lead eagerly.

“He’s a Mormon, or a Latter-Day Saint as they snobbishly call themselves, although this odor of sanctity definitely doesn’t become them. So, after the mission left, your Castiel didn’t follow it. I have no idea why he was left behind, but I suspect this wasn’t due to his good behavior. When I came here, he was starving to death in his fort. I figured that an alive preacher could be more useful than a dead one, so I let him live.”

“You said he wasn’t a preacher,” Dean mumbled.

“Nobody cares.” Crowley gestured towards Castiel, outlining his figure in the air with the tip of his cigar, “He looks like a preacher, he talks like a preacher. So…You know. The duck story.”

Castiel didn’t know the story Crowley was referring to, but it wasn’t making much difference anymore. The whole speech, put in Crowley’s usual careless, easy manner, was humiliating enough. He felt devastated and lost much more than when he had been literally left alone. All his senses were suddenly gone, even his back wasn’t aching anymore.

“Are you done?” he asked drily.

Crowley smiled. “Almost.”

He was about to continue, when Dean said, “No, you’re done.” He gave Castiel a brief look, but his expression was unreadable. “What’s next? What do you want?”

“Well, two things. First of all, I want you to get out of here. I’ve already spent too much of my valuable time on you, and now I have more important matters to attend to. I assume…ten minutes will be more than enough for you to pack your pitiful belongings and disappear from this town. Forever.”

Dean squinted at him. “And you’ll just let us go? Just like that?”

“No, I’ll invite a farewell orchestra.” Crowley looked at his cigar and ground it on the edge of the table. “I’m in a placable mood today, but I strongly suggest you not to tempt me. I kindly forgive your…little team for slaughtering my men. Tomorrow, I’d have to pay them wages, and this is always a very painful moment for me. So now, as much as I’m enjoying your company, I don’t need you here, dead or alive. I won’t stop you leaving.”

“All right,” Dean nodded slightly, “and what’s the second thing?”

“Oh, the second…” Crowley shut his eyes for a moment. “The second is this.”

He reached out to where the Colt was still placed on the table, in plain sight and well-forgotten during the fight and the following conversation. No one had a chance to hide it away with Crowley’s appearance, or rather no one had thought of it. Castiel immediately cursed himself for this oversight, as it was going to cost them dearly, but it was too late.

Crowley took the gun and weighed it in his palm. “This is not a proper toy for stupid little boys. It will be safer with me.”

Sam waved desperately. Dean rushed ahead.

“No!” he screamed. “No, you can’t!”

Crowley raised his hand, and Dean froze still where he was, not able to move.

“That’s precisely what I was talking about. Stupid little boy.” He opened a lapel of his suit, and the Colt slid somewhere inside as if it was no bigger than a pin. “Brilliant.” He smiled again, now beaming with pleasure, and turned to Castiel, “Will you join me for a drink, father?”


	7. Brothers and Arms

“Damn.” Dean kicked the horse stall frame with such violence, that the whole building reeled. “Damn, damn, damn! How the hell could I leave it there?”

Sam shook his head. He had always been better at keeping his mood to himself, but now he didn’t even try to hide how upset he was.

“Dean, come on, it’s not your fault,” he said.

“Seriously?”

“We were there too. And we’ve all missed it.”

“Your gun is here, and the Deringer too. Only the Colt is gone, ‘cause we just stood there openmouthed, listening to that babbling bastard, like complete idiots!”

“That babbling bastard was a demon,” Sam protested. “You wouldn’t stop him. No one would.”

Leaving the stall alone, Dean kicked a wisp of hay. The stable was already open for them (granted his moment of glory, Joshua had personally seen them off), and their horses, saddled and loaded with sacks, were stamping quietly. There were only three of them, including Castiel, who was standing a few feet away, leaning onto the door frame.

Taking his time, Dean grabbed the reins and pretended to sort them out. He was struggling to get a grip on himself. Sam was probably right, but this was too faint an excuse for what had happened. Dean couldn’t help being hateful with the whole world—and with himself certainly leading the list. Second came Sam with his compassion and sad eyes. The third was Castiel’s silence.

“We should’ve tried.”

Dean noticed a little movement where Castiel was standing, but no words came out. It suddenly occurred to Dean that Castiel had not spoken since they’d left the room.

“Dean, we’ll get it back.” Sam was vaguely hopeful. “We’ll find a way. I don’t think Crowley will destroy it.”

“Even if he keeps it, that doesn’t really help at the moment,” Dean said. Against his will, he was gradually calming down. “Well, let’s review. We have no Colt, no money, and no room. Awesome.”

Sam sighed, his expression sour. “Let's deal with one thing at a time. Where do we go? We can’t stay in this town anymore.”

Before Dean could reply, Castiel left his observation post at the door and made a slow step forward, finally getting himself in the spot of light from the dirty lantern. He was still very pale but seemed all right, just oddly tense.

“I have a small cabin three miles away,” he said. “It’s not as comfortable as the room you had, but I believe it can be used…for the meantime. That’s if…if you’d like to use it.” His gaze slipped from Sam to Dean and stopped, straight but uncertain, as if he didn’t want to hear the answer he was expecting.

An awkward pause followed. While Dean was thinking over what to say, Castiel gave him a nod and a crooked half-smile.

“Apparently, you don’t.” There was no disappointment in his voice, only the tone used for a matter-of-fact statement. “I understand.”

Dean winced, realizing how his silence had been interpreted and inadvertently wondering what had made this man perceive everything so literally. Maybe Crowley hadn’t told them the full story, Dean thought. Anyway, it felt like what he had told them was quite enough.

Dean dropped the reins and came to him. “Um…No. No, Cas…Or it’s still father Castiel? Whatever. You’ve got me wrong. It’s not about you, all right? We just…you know. What Crowley had said, makes no difference.”

At this rambling explanation, Castiel tilted his head. “No difference about what?”

“About you. I don’t care if you’re a preacher or not.”

“And me too,” Sam added. “It’s all right, reverend.”

Castiel looked away. “Please, don’t call me reverend. This is not…my title.” He cut off for a moment, then warily went on, “So…will you use my cabin? I can show you the way.”

Dean immediately felt guilty for what he was about to say. “No. Thanks, but…It’s the first place where Crowley would look for us, so no way are we putting you in danger like that. And also…I don’t think we’ll stay long.”

Sam glanced at him in surprise. “What? You don’t mean we’re leaving, do you?”

“Well, not right now…” Dean gave Sam a meaningful glare. He didn’t have time to share his new plan and hoped Sam would understand there was something actually planned.

“Um…” Sam was hesitant for a long moment. Then he said, “All right, and when?”

“Soon.”

As Dean said that, he caught Castiel’s unblinking, intent stare. There was a strange mixture of disapproval and sorrow, and a bit of pain, and maybe something else Dean didn’t seem able to define yet, and he felt another wave of self-hatred flooding him. Castiel obviously wanted to help them, he was fighting for them, and even though he was weird and secretive about his demon friends, he didn’t deserve being left behind like that.

“Thanks for your help,” Dean mumbled with a stupid smile. “Cas…tiel.” This was the best he managed to force out.

Castiel nodded.

“You are leaving without your Colt?” he asked in a flat voice. _Too flat_.

“We’ll come back for it…Later.”

“Oh. I see.”

Dean took back the reins and pulled the first horse out of the stall, avoiding everyone’s eye. Sam followed him with the next one, and within a couple of minutes, they were outside, ready to go.

Castiel came out too, frowning in solemn silence. He wasn’t looking at Dean anymore.

“Would you keep an eye on the other horses?” Sam asked him. “Or, maybe, you’d like to take them?”

“I don’t need horses, Sam.”

“I just thought…like, walking thirty miles might not be such a pleasant thing? You could use one of them for your trips.”

Castiel shook his head in proud protest.

“No.”

There was nothing else to say. Sam and Dean leaped into their saddles. They were all set up and about to ride, when Castiel asked suddenly, “Are you going to the mining camp?”

Too surprised to lie, Dean said, “Yes.”

“Don’t go near the mine shafts.” His voice was so low that it seemed he was whispering.

Dean nearly whistled. “Why not?”

“Miners,” Castiel paused at the word, “talked about some…unusual creatures living there.”

“Like what?”

“Locals call them hellhounds.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“I don’t think they exaggerate.”

Dean glanced at him, grinning, but Castiel’s serious, concentered expression was quite convincing. Whatever he was meaning, he believed it to be true, and this strong belief seemed to spread around, infecting others in some mysterious way. His face still had a few drops of someone else’s blood, his dark hair was tangled, covering his temples, and his eyes seemed darker than ever before, making him look elusively disobedient. His whole body was rigid as if lined up along an invisible ruler, his stubborn chin turned up. It felt somehow strange to look at Castiel from the top downward. There was something vaguely improper about it—as though it should have been done conversely. Dean tossed his head, shaking off an unwanted sensation.

“Um…all right,” he said lamely, adjusting his hat (which was already comfortable enough) to occupy himself and win another moment to stay. “You…take care, Cas.”

“You too, Dean.”

Sam muttered some farewells, ran his hand through his hair and put on a hat. As he squeezed his horse’s sides, ordering her to hit the road, Dean had no alternative but to do the same. Yet, after a few yards, he took a second to turn back.

Castiel was standing in place, staring after them.

#

It was still too early and too light to be heading straight to the mining camp. The plan Dean had in mind required darkness, and the more of it the better.

They rode by a wider turn, circling the camp at a safe distance and pulling their horses to the rare grass to muffle the rattle of hooves. They didn’t speak and barely glanced at each other, like strangers who just happened to be on the same road. Undoubtedly, Sam was curious, but he knew well enough how to wait.

They made it to the Colorado river in a blazing hot afternoon. The bank was higher than Dean had expected, with rocky cliffs rising out of the water like the backs of giant animals. The river itself was about five hundred yards wide, calm and emerald in color. Sam and Dean watched the peaceful landscape for a few minutes, enjoying a fresh breeze.

On the left, the river bank was slightly lower and less rocky, spotted with sage-brush wisps and smoothly descending to the water’s edge. They rode there and dismounted, letting their horses drink. At the first sounds of the water’s loud slush, Sam and Dean exchanged conspiratorial gazes and rushed to the water, taking off their clothes on the way.

They swam in the river, washing off the road dust and recent worries, splashing each other and laughing stupidly until their feet started freezing. Sam got out first and started jumping on a big flat stone, shaking off the water from his ears and sending a spray of glittering droplets all around him. Dean watched him for a while, then climbed up the shore himself.

“Doggie,” he said, laughing. “Well, an overgrown doggie.”

“Shut up.” Sam waved him off, but he was smiling too. He lay down on the stones, stretching out his arms and legs and froze for a moment, his eyes shut. “It’s so quiet here.”

Dean sat beside him, his feet crossed. “Yeah, since you got out of the water.”

“No, I mean…Peaceful. Like, there is no...stuff over there. No demons, no monsters...And no war.”

“Dreamer.”

Sam swung his head to the side and looked up, covering his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I remember it's all there, Dean, don't take me for an idiot. But it seems so far away...I wish Dad was here. Just for a moment, like, to get some rest.”

“He's never been good at that.”

“That's why I'm saying.” Sam shut his eyes again and exhaled a sigh. “You know what I'm really dreaming of?”

“What?”

“That we'd have some things...gear or whatever, I have no idea what it would look like, but the thing that could send letters fast. Really fast, like giving them by hand. Just imagine for a moment, Dean, how helpful would it be! Like, you wanna tell me something, but you’re far away, so you take that thing, and I get your words in a second! Wouldn't that be amazing?”

Dean frowned a little, assessing the possibility.

“And I'll be pigeon-mailing you back?”

“Yeah, that too. At the same speed. We could even be talking like that!”

“We're talking already.”

“But what if we were far apart? Or working on a case? We could warn each other if something goes wrong.” For a while, Sam went silent. Then he said, “And we could talk to Dad.”

Dean squinted at the setting sun. Sam’s fantasy seemed too fairytale-ish to consider it seriously.

“I sent him a letter from Beaver.”

“Did you? To where?”

“To Bobby’s. He’ll find a way to pass it through.”

Sam smiled. “Good. I wonder, though, when we could get an answer…Do you think Dad’s still somewhere in North Carolina? Then the letter might reach him faster.”

“Maybe.” Dean bit his lower lip and kicked Sam at the side, “Get up, Rip Van Winkle, we gotta go.”

They both dressed, swearing at their clothes for feeling sticky on their wet bodies. Sam caught the horses and led them to the top of the cliff, closer to the winding road back.

“This one is high,” he noted, looking down at the water. “Some forty feet, huh?”

“I’d say fifty,” Dean said, having a brief look himself. He hated heights and felt equally awful at any rise higher than ten feet. “Get away from the edge.”

“Stop nursing me,” Sam said with a smirk but stepped away. “I’m not a kid.”

“It’s not my fault you’re acting like one,” Dean replied vacantly. The words he’d said somehow brought back a memory of ducks, and then immediately—of Crowley. He glanced down at his empty holster and grumbled, “Son of a bitch.”

Sam nodded sadly, his radiant smile gone. “Colt will kill us for losing the gun.”

“Not if we get it back.”

“How? What you’ve said to the reverend…I mean, to Castiel—it doesn’t make much sense to me. You wanna share?”

Dean scratched his cheek.

“You won’t like it.”

Sam faced him, clearly concerned. “I’m listening.”

If Dean were honest, he didn’t like it himself. Nor did he feel too confident in its success. Rather, he didn’t feel any. The warning Castiel had given him mattered too—not as the number one problem, but like something one would better keep in mind. Unfortunately, Dean had been unable to find any other route to the target that would avoid danger completely.

He only started to speak when he and Sam were on horseback again (Sam waited patiently, eyeing Dean’s back with a grim expression). The cliffs were at least five hundred yards behind them, hidden from sight by solid hills, and for Dean, that change was both relief and encouragement.

“Let me ask you one question first,” Dean said, pulling over to ride alongside Sam, “Why would Crowley be so mad about competition?”

“He knows we’re not commercial agents.”

“I’m not asking about us, Sam. I’m asking, like, in general. Benny said agents had been here before. But Crowley is a demon, a real son-of-a-bitchy demon. So why would he bother at all?”

“He tries to play nice?” Sam suggested.

“Yeah, but why? What’s the whole point? His real business here? The business so bloody important to him that he kissed us goodbye and let us go?”

Sam shook his head. “Dean, come on. If you do have an idea, just all of a sudden, get to it.”

“I do have an idea.” Dean paused at the word, making sure he was ready. “Listen. Samuel Colt sent us to San Juan when he’d got the sample of silver. He got it from here. Eldorado Canyon has the only mining camp, and we’ve seen it. So this silver—the silver Colt needs—was taken from one of these shafts. The best-in-breed silver, a bullet-maker’s dream. Don’t you think, Sam,” Dean went on in a mild voice, pulling his reins, “that Samuel Colt might be not the only person who knows that? That the prey might be as interested in a weapon as a hunter is?”

Sam scowled, thinking it over.

“Wait, you mean—Crowley knows the silver from Eldorado Canyon is, um, special?”

“I’m sure he does,” Dean nodded. “It’s not about the money. It’s all about the silver.”

“And that’s why he keeps other agents away?”

“Let me rephrase it for you—that’s why all the agents who had been here have never been seen again.”

“Then he must as well know which shaft the silver is from.”

“Sure. I bet it’s the one with that stupid name…The king of the hill?”

“The Mountain Throne,” Sam corrected. “Isn’t that too obvious?”

“It’s just a guess,” Dean said with a shrug. “All shafts are guarded the same way, but miners don’t give a damn about the names, right? It gotta mean something only to Crowley. And from what I’ve seen, he is a bigheaded asshole.”

Sam smirked. “Bigheaded assholes don’t end up in silver mines,” he said, and they both laughed. In spite of the silver, Crowley’s current position didn’t appear even remotely honorable. “So what’s your plan?”

“To get the silver. We’ll…um, raid the shafts. Remember that cart we saw there? It’s already loaded, we just need to take a few pieces of ore from it.”

Sam raised his eyebrows in a mixture of surprise and disgust. “Just? Apart from the demons who guard it, wouldn’t that be a robbery?”

“The cart has tons of ore, no one will notice if a few pounds go missing.”

“And it’ll still be a robbery.”

“It will,” Dean agreed, “but we’ll pay when we get back. All right, let me make it clear. The plan—I mean, the full plan—has three steps. Step one: we get the silver and bring it to Colt. Step two: he crafts another gun like the one we’ve lost. Step three: we go back, gank Crowley and his henchmen, and pay off the miners.” He glanced at Sam, trying to see his reaction, but nothing followed. Dean paused a moment, then said, “That’s about all.”

There was a long silence. Sam was chewing his lower lip as if hesitating about what to say—a clear sign of him being skeptical. Dean knew that expression of his, concerned and uneasy, unlike his usual self. Sam wasn’t often worried, and Dean hated it when he was. When he finally cleared his throat, Dean caught himself holding his breath.

“Just like that?” Sam said.

“Just like that.”

“Then you were right. I don’t like it.”

“Which part of it?” Dean asked, pretending not to be annoyed.

“Well, basically, both plans. Um…all three steps, if you wish. I don’t even know which of them sounds more suicidal.”

“Does it matter?”

Sam forced a bitter laugh. “I’m not sure.” Then, with a sour, deep voice, he added, “How are you going to…Hell, it’s so ridiculous…How’re you going to pass through the demons?”

This was something Dean suddenly had an answer for. He half raised the rifle attached to his saddle, and with what he thought was a triumphant smile, announced, “With this.”

“Really? You’re kidding. Demons cannot be shot.”

“And who said I’m gonna shoot _them_?” Dean smiled again, this time almost without an effort. “I’m gonna shoot around them.” And seeing Sam was not yet fully convinced, he lowered his voice, “We’ll distract them.”

#

They approached the mining camp from the eastern side and stopped a hundred yards away, at the outskirts hidden behind rocks. It was getting dark with a quickness apparently usual for the south, and within mere minutes their surroundings turned into an even dark-gray color. As far as Dean could tell, they were invisible—but this also meant they could barely see anything around them.

The mining camp, though, was still awake. Even from a distance, Sam and Dean could hear the clattering of dishes and agitated dogs’ barking. It seemed to be dinner time.

Sam wrapped the horses’ hooves with rags to muffle them and tied the reins to a crooked tree.

“We have to wait,” he told Dean, coming back.

“Yeah. Hope they won’t be hanging out there till dawn.”

They settled side by side on a big stone, still slightly warm from the sun. The air was cool now and felt brisk on their faces. For a moment, Dean regretted they couldn’t light a campfire. He shivered, ruffled up like a bird, and hid his hands in the sleeves of his shirt.

The silver mill was right in front of them, about fifty yards behind the fence. A rough silhouette of the building was still clearly seen, its massive basement and gable roof quite ironically resembling a church. If someone sent prayers over there, Dean thought, it wasn’t for good.

A few dark figures moved slowly along the walls, making long stops at the corners. There seemed to be more of them now, and Dean wondered inadvertently whether it was because of the night or because of two certain troublesome hunters. Either reason was possible, and either could bring them bad luck. Although the mill itself was their last target, it was too well-guarded. Sam and Dean had never encountered that amount of demons before—at least not all at once.

They had been waiting for nearly an hour when the camp finally started to calm down and get to sleep. Not willing to show his impatience, Dean suggested giving it half an hour more just to be on the safe side. He was vaguely aware what time it was, probably something around midnight. The time of monsters and hunters.

He suddenly thought of Castiel—or just Cas, as Dean kept calling him mentally—this weirdly mysterious man with unrecognizable emotions who didn’t belong to either group. Judging by his tired face, it was most likely that midnight wasn’t his time of sleeping. He could be cooking his vegetables or talking to that Meg thing…Dean cut himself off at the thought, strangely bothered by the assumption. For some reason, he’d preferred Cas to be cooking.

Dean still could not understand him. He acted both as if he didn’t care and cared too much, and for Dean, this was an incongruous combination. Cas insisted on saying he could not help and then went headlong into the battle. Cas had a demon friend and claimed his readiness to ally with the hunters. Cas was a preacher…and he wasn’t. Whatever he was up to, this extent of self-restraint was astonishing—and a little intriguing as well…or maybe more than a little. And his staring…In all fairness, Cas wasn’t the first one to stare at Dean, but the first to make Dean wonder what that stare had meant. Possibly enough, it was simple curiosity, and yet, something hinted that it wasn’t. Unfortunately, this _something_ , securely and privately hidden somewhere deep inside Dean’s stomach, didn’t give any clues to further knowledge. And along with that, it didn’t feel like danger. From the very first uneasy moment at the fort until the last one, that awkward farewell near the saloon, Cas somehow made it clear he was plotting no evil. Dean did not know that for sure (and he had been raised with a strong belief in trusting no one), but his intuition could not be so wrong. After all, even Bobby happened to do and say strange things to them, and still had their full credence.

And finally, Cas was a Mormon. Following some dubious family traditions, Dean wasn’t very religious. He hardly even remembered those few rare occasions when he’d visited a Sunday school. This certainly had been before Sam was born, for then Dean happily swapped his boring classes for childcare (eventually mostly handled by Mary), and later—to hunting with John. Churches had never attracted him, religious books had made him sleepy, and the only prayer he had memorized was the Thanksgiving one, customized to specifically mention an apple pie. As for Mormons, Dean knew nothing. The Mormon community had always kept itself separated from the rest of the world, and this seclusion had a distinct scent of bigotry, overriding both human history and common sense. With Cas, Dean wasn’t sure about the history, but his common sense left a lot to be desired. _Otherwise_ , Dean told himself, _why would he be living in such a branch of Hell?_

“What are you thinking about?” Sam whispered.

“Ah, nothing. I just…” _Do you know anything about Mormons?_ “Nothing.”

Sam shifted slightly, turning to look at Dean, his long hair falling over his face. Although Dean could not meet his gaze, he felt it was shining with suspicious curiosity.

“Well, I guess the camp’s asleep,” he said with an easy voice and got up. “Come on, Sammy. It’s showtime.”


	8. Hellhounds

The fence around the mining site surrendered easily and silently. Sam and Dean jumped over it in a quick move and landed on the ground, holding their silver knives ready. They took a moment to listen around, making sure the demons hadn’t noticed the intrusion and headed to the mines. They had left most of their gear with the horses, limiting themselves to just salt, knives and a rifle which was swinging proudly behind Dean’s back like a Round Table knight’s lance.

For their temporary hiding place, they chose one of the abandoned mines, sitting in close proximity to the mill. Dean didn’t remember which one it was (their copious names didn’t ring a bell to him anyway), nor did it make any difference. It wasn’t their target.

Moving at a hasty pace, they reached the dark opening looking like a giant rabbit hole. Sam lurked in first, two-double to fit in. In a moment, Dean followed him, covering his head with his hand—it was pitch-black around them, and any sharp stone could easily slice his head before it was noticed.

Sam crawled a few feet inside the mine and stopped.

“It’s getting too narrow up ahead,” he said.

Dean felt it too— the coarse walls of the tunnel were already scratching his shoulders. And he had to admit, being trapped inside this rocky coffin didn’t feel very nice.

“Let’s stay here.”

Sam sat down and helped Dean to get free of the rifle. The mine was so cramped that the brothers could barely move simultaneously, and they kept pushing and kicking each other. After a few minutes of tense bustle and sniffing, Dean said he was finally ready to go.

With a box of matches in one hand and a silver knife in another, helping himself with his elbows, he wriggled along the tunnel. He felt the exit opening as a chill air touched his face, rather than saw it—the darkness around him was so dense that he was only guessing his way. Although slowing him down, it was helpful to be hidden from demons’ black eyes.

Outside, Dean took a moment to glance around. The mill was just about fifty feet away, and the guards, obviously unconcerned about low visibility, could spot him at any time. He saw a shadow shaped like a figure with a rifle, moving slowly towards the corner, crunching dry grass with every step. The demon was walking calmly, even lazily, his stiffened pace totally inert. Dean waited patiently until the demon turned round the wall, then inhaled deeply and rushed to the mill.

It took him a minute to find a long enough ridge of grass. He squeezed his knife between his teeth, pulled out a match from the box, lit it and brought to the grass, covering the flame with his palm. The clumps flared up instantly, lighting up Dean’s face and hands. He furiously blew at the fire, extinguishing it and turning into white smoke. He counted up to five to make sure the smoke wouldn’t vanish, then stepped a yard aside and repeated the whole ritual. The second smoking spot came out fine as well, so Dean continued with the third one in exactly the same manner. When all three smoldering sites were ready, he shoved the matchbox inside his shirt, gripped his knife again and ran back to the mine shaft.

He ducked in and bumped into Sam, who was sitting much closer to the entrance now.

“You all right?” he asked, trying to conceal both his anxiety and relief. Sometimes, waiting was harder than taking the risk.

Dean nodded, catching his breath. Then he said, “Yeah. Three pretty little smokes…What is it that it means in the Indian language?”

“No idea.” Surprisingly, there still were things even Sam didn’t know about. “So, what’s next?”

“We’ll wait.”

They didn’t have to wait long. A few moments later, the mill came to life. Two demons with oil lanterns in their hands appeared, visibly alarmed and talking hastily. Sam and Dean could not hear a word, nor they could see the demons clearly, but the rapid, incoherent movements of the lights around the mill spoke for themselves. Demons spotted the smoke and were desperately trying to find the cause.

After several inspection turns around the building, they still didn’t locate anything. Although fierce and powerful, demons usually weren’t very smart; perfect soldiers, they were best at following their orders but not at analyzing the supernatural appearances of others. And Dean’s plan was to use that helpful feature in full.

Gradually, the rustle near the mill slowed down. The last of demons took another route and got out of sight. Shortly after, a few new ones appeared, each holding a lantern, and took their watch positions at all four corners of the building.

“Awesome,” Dean grinned, “now they’re Night-Watching.”

Sam didn’t share his joy.

“They won’t let you get close anymore.”

“I ain’t going to.”

He sat next to Sam, prepared for further waiting. By his rough estimate, half an hour would be enough for the demons to ensure everything was all right and give up the chase.

The moon showed up in the night sky, bright-white and round as an eye of Cyclops. The mill was now in full sight, the demons' silhouettes contoured nearby with their lanterns swinging slightly. They definitely seemed more alert than before. _No way will you out-wait me, you bastards_ , Dean muttered to himself.

He kept his eye on them for a long time. Sam watched too, his brows furrowed with attention. Neither of them spoke, neither made any movement. They mutely counted the minutes, waiting for time to pass.

Dean noticed a cloud creeping over the moon and took it as a call to action. He started to hurriedly gather pebbles and shards of ore from the tunnel floor and shoving them into his pockets. When they were filled, Dean straightened up and tucked his knife under his belt.

“Time for round two.”

He left their hideaway cautiously, making every effort not to create any noise. This time, he didn’t approach the mill. Instead, he crawled sideways alongside the mining hill, getting to the building from the back. About thirty yards away, he stopped and took out a handful of stones. Aiming was easy—the mill’s top towered clearly across the moonlit sky. Dean swung his arm and threw the stones at the roof.

The stones hit the wooden slopes and rolled down with a loud rumbling noise. It sounded even louder against the surrounding silence, and Dean instinctively shrank his head down to his shoulders. Not waiting for the last stone to hit the ground, he threw the second handful.

The demons were already running to the southern side of the building, where the roof had been attacked. Two new ones came from the distant mines; a few more tumbled out from inside the mill, all swearing and looking around.

Dean flattened himself against the rock, praising God that he was hidden in the shadows. His heart was pounding in his mouth as if it was about to burst out. With a horde of angry demons just twenty yards from him, it wouldn’t be too surprising.

Meanwhile, the demons kept searching. This time they didn’t limit themselves by simply rounding the mill, and bravely made it to a broader distance away. They bent low to the ground and craned their necks up, kicked the loose stones, trampled the grass and punched the bushes with their rifle butts. It was hard to tell what kind of enemy they were trying to find that way, but Dean sincerely hoped their hunting enthusiasm wouldn’t last long. It felt weird to be prey, he thought suddenly. To be hunted rather than hunt himself. Weird and scary.

At last, the search was over. Reluctantly, the demons crowded by the entrance to discuss the matter. Even at a distance, they looked visibly annoyed and bewildered. Waiting for the meeting to finish, Dean counted them: eleven. Eleven black-eyed monsters after his head. Awesome.

He had to wait several long minutes until the demon crowd started to dissolve. One by one they entered the mill, leaving the perimeter guards outside and shut the door from inside, protecting themselves and whatever they had been hiding there from another attack. Although they didn’t find the enemy, they seemed to believe the mill was this enemy’s only target.

Everything got quiet again. Dean checked his knife to be in place and dashed back.

Sam looked even more worried than before. As Dean’s head appeared in the opening, Sam reached out to literally drag him in.

“That was close,” he grumbled. “With so many of them, I thought you wouldn’t make it back here.”

Dean had to admit he’d thought the same.

“They had reinforcements, did you see? Two more even gave up defending their mines to catch me. Damned walking dolls!” He paused a little, then said, “There should be just four of them left outside, right?”

“There were six in the morning, so yeah...Four left.”

“Four’s better than six.”

Sam said nothing. Even four demons were quite a thing to deal with, but Dean kept hoping to distract all of them into guarding the mill.

Another half hour passed in silence. Sam and Dean were still sitting in the damp, chilly darkness of the abandoned mine, barely glancing at each other. Their next—and hopefully last—round was approaching, and neither of them knew what would happen. Eventually, Dean gave the command to go.

“Your turn,” he told Sam, handing him the loaded rifle, his hoarse voice ruining an attempt at nonchalance. “Don’t miss, William Tell.”

Sam squeezed past Dean, instantly making the narrow shaft even smaller. He had to kneel to look out.

“All clear.”

“Good luck.”

Sam nodded and crawled out. Dean watched him heading noiselessly to the right of the mine, but within a few yards, a rock hid him from view. Now all Dean could do was wait.

For a few moments, nothing happened. Dean started to count mutely (without any definite purpose, just to get hold of the time), but soon gave it up as the seconds suddenly felt too long, as if stretched out artificially, and as if the clock hands started running counter-wise. With a pang of guilt, Dean thought of Sam, who had already been waiting for him twice like that. He’d hurried, but he had better had hurry more.

His eye caught some movement behind the black rock, and a moment later, a thin barrel of the rifle slowly peeked out, rising. Sam knew he wouldn’t have another chance, and was aiming thoroughly.

Dean held his breath. _Now_.

A rifle-shot broke the silence. Sam’s hand didn’t flinch, and the bullet crashed through the lantern at the mill porch, sending its shards flying around.

The demons rushed outside, slamming the door open so hard that it nearly fell off its hinges. Dark shadows thrashed about blindly, disorderly, desperately looking for guidance on a target to hit. For one terrifying moment, Dean thought they were summoning Crowley, and froze with horror as his appearance would doubtlessly bring an end to both the plan and the planners. But then, he remembered Benny’s words—the master didn’t visit here often. _He’d better stay away this night_ , Dean implored a stone wall next to him, _he’d better have a nap today, or whatever the demons do when they don’t kill and possess people…He’d just better not come here, please…Sam, where the hell are you?_

The answer to his last question came sooner than Dean expected and nearly knocked him down as Sam jumped back into the hole. Luckily, the bustle around the mill muffled his dash, and Dean didn’t even hear him approaching. Sam was panting, a smoking rifle was swinging in his hand, but he was alive and seemed intact.

“Good shot, my lord,” Dean whispered, patting Sam on the shoulder.

Sam nodded wearily and collapsed down. He was still trembling slightly, more with tension than with exertion from the run.

“Now what?”

“Look.”

Dean pointed at the opening where the demons were still wandering, trying to figure out what was happening. Without the lantern, they were not very visible, but even in the moonlight, Dean counted thirteen. And two more were already on their way.

“Full house, huh?”

Sam’s lips made a little movement—he was counting too.

“Seems so,” he said slowly, as he finished at fifteen. “But what if they won’t…”

“Look,” Dean repeated.

The demons were no longer moving. For about a minute, all of them were standing very still, listening out and peering into the darkness. At last, as if following some silent order, they faced the mill and started going in. They were entering one by one, not touching each other and keeping a steady, confident pace. Whatever they had decided to do, it made them act in precisely the same way and bring everyone inside. All fifteen of them.

As the last figure vanished from the porch, Dean heaved a sigh of relief.

“Hell, it worked.”

“Didn’t you believe it would?”

Dean shrugged. Now was a much better time for confessions. “I hoped.” He reached out for salt bags. “You sure there’s no back door?”

“Yes,” Sam said readily, “I checked while it was still light enough to see. Just the front one.”

“Good.”

This once, they didn’t wait. Each with a thick salt bag in hand, Sam and Dean got out of the mine shaft and ran to the mill. As they reached the porch, they split and emptied their bags along the shut door, preventing the demons’ exit. What all hunters had normally used for their own protection now had to isolate the monsters. A hand-drawn trap would certainly be more secure, but Sam and Dean had nothing to make it with, not around the whole building.

They didn’t bother to quiet any noise they were making anymore—they believed they didn’t have to. Dean leaned down to flatten the salt stripe, then straightened, shaking off his hands.

“All right,” he said, “let’s go get the treasure.”

They remembered well enough where the cart with silver ore was placed—about two hundred yards to the south, right behind a beaked rock. In the white moonlight, its folded structure looked like an uneven stack of scones, forgotten by a reckless cook. Dean’s stomach made a quiet growl at the sight—a reminder of a never-happened lunch and dinner.

It was so quiet that they could hear themselves breathing. No one had followed them so far. The mining camp appeared to be sleeping soundly, untroubled by the shot. _Maybe_ , Dean thought, _they were simply too afraid to interfere_. _If a neighbor of yours suddenly turns into a black-eyed monster, you don’t hurry to follow him._ Benny and his fellows were good people, but they were just people.

The cart was already a short distance ahead. It was there and unguarded, but looking at it, Dean noticed something had changed about it since the morning. The upper contour seemed somewhat different. Lower and more level. Suddenly apprehensive, Dean darted to the cart and tucked his hand inside.

It was empty.

He still ferreted about the cart. His fingers reached the bottom and only met a tiny shard of ore, no bigger than an egg. Dean hurled it away and clenched his fists in forceless anger.

“Damn! When did it get that empty? It was full this morning!”

Sam peered in, then stepped aside. When he finally spoke, he sounded just as confused.

“Maybe they don’t leave it full for the night? Take the day’s ore to the mill? Just, you know…for precaution?”

“That’s why the demons fussed over that mill so much…Damn.”

Everything he had planned, everything they had done so perfectly, was now rolling into the abyss. A devastating realization dawned on him. There wasn’t a single chance the get the ore from the mill, once all the demons were brooding above it. It would be days until Sam and Dean could get close to the mines again, and highly unlikely that they would be lucky enough to fool the demons the same way. The ore was beyond reach, and that meant only one thing—they had failed.

_Bloody hell._

At a slow pace, with a rueful reluctance of losers, they walked back to the abandoned mine. Dean ducked in first and sank onto the stones. His feet touched the opposite wall of the shaft, and he kicked it hatefully. A few loose pebbles fell onto his boots as if in revenge for the disturbance.

“Destroying the shaft won’t help, Dean,” Sam said, sitting next to him, leaning the nape of his neck against the wall.

“I know.”

“We’ll think of something else. Just calm down, all right?”

At that, Dean just shrugged. There was nothing else to think of right now, and they both knew it.

He dug a matchbox out of his pocket and started tossing it around in his palm. It felt warm, and the matches rolling inside somehow seemed alive. Dean took one of them out and squeezed it thoughtlessly between his fingers. As the thin wood cracked and broke due to the pressure, Dean swore. The small thing didn’t deserve it, it wouldn’t fail at its job as he had.

He took another match and lit it. The mine shaft brightened with the trembling flame, showing up its rounded walls, roughly cut and mossy at the creases. Several months ago, when this mine was still in use, it hardly looked better. Dean turned around to look into the deep darkness, curious how far the light would reach. The tunnel went on about ten feet further, narrow and cluttered with what looked like pieces of ore, then abruptly turned right, deeper into the bottom of the hill.

He had already half-turned away when something flickered near the left wall. Dean raised his match and gazed narrowly, trying to figure what it could be, then called out to Sam.

“You saw that?”

“A shiny thing? Yeah.” He shifted and peered over Dean’s shoulder. “What’s that?”

The match burnt down. Dean drew out another one and lit it. “Hold it for me, will you? I’m gonna have a look.”

On his elbows and knees, Dean crawled forward. Now he could clearly see where the glitter was coming from—the lumps of ore were veined with white flakes, shiny-bright against the black ledge. He reached the first one and scratched the white thing with his fingernail.

“It’s silver, Sam,” he gasped, totally startled. “It’s bloody silver!”

Sam attempted to follow him, but the tunnel was too narrow for the two of them. He stopped a foot behind Dean and lit another match.

“You sure?”

Dean was. He hadn’t seen raw silver too often (in fact, he hadn’t seen it at all), and yet he was sure it was nothing else but silver.

He dragged the nearest lump to his knees and poked a white speckle with a tip of his knife. It gave in easily, letting the blade leave a small dent.

“I’ll be damned.”

He pursed his lips, then opened his mouth again. He was right about to speak when he heard a low growling sound coming from inside the shaft. For a moment, Dean sat still, listening. The sound was approaching rapidly, now accompanied by a hoarse, heavy breathing, as though the creature that was making it was running with its last bit of strength. Whatever it was, it sounded threatening and very, very fast.

Dean rolled over with an effort, his right elbow brushed against the wall, tearing a gap in his shirt and the flesh beneath it. Hardly paying attention, he started creeping away, terrified and desperate. He scratched his palms, and his boots were slipping on the rocks. He still could not see what was after him but hurried as quickly as he could.

The breathing was getting closer every second.

Sam shouted. His match died, and the mine shaft was immersed back into darkness. Dean tried to gain more speed, crawling faster. He felt he was not far from the opening and could already feel the air touching his face. He saw the starry sky and guessed Sam was safely outside, waiting for him.

Right then, the growling suddenly stopped. The next moment, something ripped into Dean’s left thigh with a fierceness of a hungry tiger.

He screamed and rolled on his back, trying to kick the monster with his other leg. He was hitting out blindly at random—though he felt the breathing on his skin, he didn’t see anything, not even a shadow of a thing attacking him. It seemed to be invisible.

His injured leg was almost paralyzed with pain, and his right was repeatedly hitting the air. Dean remembered he still had a knife, and he lifted the blade swiftly, waving it around himself—largely in vain. Once, he thought he’d nearly got something feasible, but then the monster struck again.

It bit him on the hip and didn’t let go, tearing the flesh apart. Dean yelled again—a desperate, deafening cry of pain and terror. He felt he was being torn apart alive.

His knife fell down and clattered on the stones, but Dean barely noticed it. He was bleeding all around, and his left side lost all feeling. Something was humming in his ears, muffling all other sounds but his heart, which was pounding insanely. As he kept kicking the monster, he realized how fast he was losing his strength. He wondered momentarily how much longer he would last.

Sam shouted something at him with a distant, unfamiliar voice. Dean didn’t catch a word, but for a brief moment, it somehow dragged him out of his thoughts. With great effort and using just his arms, he pulled himself along. He’d only made a movement or two when he felt he had broken free.

Sharp teeth and claws let him go for what seemed less than a second. Encouraged, Dean made another mad leap forward, and someone’s hands grabbed him by the armpits.

“Come on, Dean…Just a bit more…Come on!”

Apparently, Sam was heaving him out of the mine, and Dean regretted he could not help. Hardly able to move, he let himself be dragged like a sandbag, mute and unconcerned. When his upper body reached the opening, Dean used what was left of his strength and pulled himself up before he collapsed onto the ground.

“It’s…” he muttered weakly, “I don’t know what it is…”

Sam was already sitting beside him, his knife blinking in the moonlight. He didn’t answer, just bent lower, preparing to fight.

Dean propped himself up on his left elbow, trying to glance back. The shaft entrance was dark like the basement of Hell. The poor light was not reaching deeper than a foot.

And then he heard the growling again.

The monster wasn’t intending to let them go. It was probably just gaining force for another attack, and this time, Dean felt it would be its last and winning one.

“It’s there, Sammy…” he whispered, “it’s coming for us…”

“I’ll see to it.” Sam raised his knife. “Stay here.”

Staying there was everything Dean could do. His tattered leg was throbbing with pain, his vision was bleary. Even if he could get up, he wouldn’t be any help with the fighting. He was armless and useless. And truth be told, he was on the verge of passing out.

But he wasn’t dead yet. As Sam rose up from his knees, Dean lifted himself too—just halfway, keeping an upright position with his left arm. His right hand fumbled for a stone, and he grabbed it, ready to throw or hit, whatever would work better.

Outside, the monster’s harsh breathing didn’t appear as loud as it was in the shaft. Now, with its echo missing, it sounded sharper and in a way more natural, as if some giant beast was pursuing its prey. The growling was tense and uneven, distantly resembling that of a dog, given this particular dog was the size of a wolf. At this, Dean suddenly recalled that Castiel had told them something about dogs. It was something vague and weird, and all Dean could remember about it now was only his disbelief at the warning. Maybe he should have listened. Maybe it would had saved their lives.

Sam was already waving his knife around the two of them, turning his head from side to side. Like Dean before him, he wasn’t seeing anything, but he certainly felt the monster was there.

“I can’t get it, Dean!” Sam exhaled, “just can’t see it!”

It was even closer now, and they heard the growling coming from different sides already, as though the beasts were surrounding them, drawing a noose. There seemed to be much more sound coming up along with the breathing— the trample of feet, the whistle of the wind, the rustle of grass. An ugly odor of rotten flesh was filling the air, immersing everything in a suffocating cloud.

There was no escape.

Sam shrieked as one of the things tried to snatch him. His knife vainly sliced the air, and Dean darted towards him, falling between Sam’s feet and an invisible beast. His fist was met with some resistance, as if it had plowed into something during the fall, and he dropped the stone he was holding. He couldn’t guess if the target had been hit, but the next moment, the growling increased drastically, and the sound of breathing came nearer. It was coming close to Dean’s throat.

He waved with both arms, brushing it aside, fencing himself in with an imaginary shield. He heard himself crying out for help, but words just wouldn’t come. His tongue got thick and was barely moving. Exhausted, Dean slid down onto the ground.

“Dean!!”

Sam reached out to him and pulled at his arm, but Dean failed to answer. He was drowsy, and his eyes began to close.

He thought he was already dreaming when the perimeter fence cracked and fell, savaged by a horse. Then came the rattle of hooves and a violent whipping, and then something whistled by, blazing through everything in its path. With the corner of his eye, Dean caught a narrow glimpse of silver, and a moment later, the smitten beast crashed down on his chest.

He couldn’t see or hear anymore. The dead weight was overwhelming, but Dean had no force left to push it away. He gasped, and obviously, someone noticed it—the weight was instantly gone. Dean took a blissful gulp of air and closed his eyes.

“Sam, are you hurt?” A new voice came in a sequence of echoing sounds.

“No…no, I’m all right,” Sam’s voice echoed too, somewhere very far away. “I’m fine…Please, help Dean…”

A strong hand gripped Dean by the shoulder. Before he could resist, another hand ran along his chest, checking gently for injuries. He flinched as he felt it on his ribs, but the hand swiftly moved down to his bleeding side. The pressure of a touch to it was too much for him. Dean uttered a groan and fell into darkness.


	9. Moments of Truth

The hellhounds were gone—at least those that chased the brothers outside. Castiel wiped his silver blade on his pants and tucked it back into his sleeve.

“We need to take him away from here,” Sam said. A few scratches the hounds had left on his own arms were bleeding slightly, but he seemed entirely oblivious to them. Holding Dean’s head on his lap as though it were a precious treasure, he was looking up at Castiel. “Maybe someone at the mining camp would help us?”

This, actually, was the first option Castiel had considered himself. He could not see all of Dean’s injuries well enough, but whatever they were, help was needed urgently, and the nearest place to get it was the mining camp. Benny and his men would not refuse to help, Castiel was sure about that. They’d give shelter and perhaps some simple medicine, and their women would take care of the bed and blankets. But miners’ mattocks could not protect Dean from Crowley’s demons, and they wouldn’t take long to appear. Once there, they’d delightedly chastise both the saviors and the saved.

“It is too close and too dangerous,” Castiel said, looking away. “There’s…there’s a different place.”

Apparently, Sam was too anxious to argue. He just nodded, accepting this rather vague offer, and bent down to check Dean’s bandages that they had hurriedly applied a few minutes ago. Having nothing else at hand, they used Sam’s shirt (he tore it to strips before one could blink) and neck-cloths, but all these were already soaked with blood.

“Where are your horses, Sam?” Castiel asked.

“Over there, in the bushes…Let’s get Dean on your saddle, I’ll walk up.”

Together, they cautiously lifted Dean from the ground and got him seated sideways into the saddle. He was still unconscious and probably didn’t feel anything, but as Castiel mounted himself, he made sure to settle Dean comfortably and put an arm across his body to secure him from falling. Fortunately, it wasn’t a long ride.

As Castiel rode through the broken fence, Sam was already catching up to him. He was on horseback, with Dean’s horse following him on the leash. Sam had a spare shirt on, and he remained upright and steady in his saddle, the reins gripped tight in his hands. He seemed all right.

They took the same road that was heading to the town, moonlit and relatively safe. Still, Castiel kept watching the path and reining in his horse to lessen the jolting. Dean didn’t move, his head leaning limply on Castiel’s shoulder. Every few moments, Castiel reached out to check if he was breathing and whispered a short prayer at the positive result.

He didn’t tell Sam where they were riding to until the road made its last turn. There, by a lone tree a hundred feet aside, sat a small cabin, hardly visible in the darkness. Castiel pulled his horse over to take the right path and turned to Sam.

“It’s here.”

“Is it…yours? The one you told us about?”

The hesitation in Sam’s voice was too clear to ignore. Castiel could not blame him—being in Sam’s place, he’d probably have the same concerns about this odd refuge looking more like another trap.

“Yes,” he replied with confidence. “You need not worry, Sam. It’s safer than it looks.”

Sam said nothing.

They rode up to the cabin porch. Sam dismounted first and halted, looking around, uncertain what to do.

“Will you please help Dean while I open the door?” Castiel asked him. “Or instead, you may enter first. It’s unlocked.”

“I’ll stay here,” Sam said immediately. He came up to the horse and took Dean’s forearms, holding him safely (as long as the horse was not moving, but even if it started to, Sam looked strong enough to stop it.)

Castiel jumped onto the ground and opened the door.

The kerosene lamp sat on its usual shelf near the entrance. Castiel ferreted for matches and lit it, then glanced around quickly to make sure everything in his only room was in order. He was used to it being so cramped for space and did not experience any embarrassment about it. His only concern was that the room probably wasn’t big enough to accommodate three people at once. Which, too, could be all right, except that Dean’s feet would definitely be hanging down from the end of the bed. It was too short even for Castiel, and he’d always woken up with freezing heels. Dean was taller, so he would fit down to his ankles. Good thing, Castiel thought, that they didn’t have to lay Sam down—bed-wise, he’d only be lucky down to his knees.

He was back at the doorstep when he heard voices.

Dean was not in the saddle anymore; his feet were on the ground, but he was swaying so much that Sam had to hold him by the waist. He was muttering and shaking his head, Sam was swearing, and neither of the two saw that Castiel had joined them.

He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen?”

“Coming,” Dean replied without lifting his head. He tried to wave and staggered, losing his balance.

Sam quickly grabbed him by the arm and pulled upright.

“It’s hardly the word,” he noted. “I guess we’ll need some help here, father.”

Castiel came up and took Dean by the other arm. Together with Sam, he half-walked and half-dragged Dean through the cabin door and ushered him into the room. All the short way, Dean was trying to move by himself, causing more trouble rather than helping, and kept mumbling he was fine. By the time they reached the bed, all three of them were exhausted.

Castiel brought the lamp closer to examine the work he was facing. It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought, but it was bad enough. Dogs’ claws had left a few torn gashes at Dean’s thigh and hip, still slightly bleeding and already starting to swell. These injuries could hardly kill, but they would certainly require a lot of work, Castiel thought, making his mind busy with practical chores rather than anxiety. Under normal circumstances, patching up the miners’ damaged knees and squeezed fingers, he would only be worrying if he had sufficient amounts of silk thread and gauze. Right now, the circumstances were excessively unusual, and the unaccustomed heaviness that Castiel felt in his chest was growing even harder.

Sam approached too. As he looked at Dean’s torn pants and shirt dark with blood, he sank wearily at the edge of the bed beside his brother.

“Oh my goodness,” he whispered. “Will he be all right?”

“I _am_ all right,” Dean grumbled in response, proving he was still awake and listening to them. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. And stop wailing, will you?”

Sam rolled his eyes, as though he’d heard these exact words too many times. He gazed around and suddenly froze still, staring at the ceiling.

“What…what is this?”

He was looking at the protective sigils Castiel had drawn there when he moved into this cabin. There were all possible varieties of them: devil’s traps, anti-possession signs—and all the others Castiel had ever known.

“What does it look like?”

“Like hunters’ sigils, but—”

“I told you it was safe here,” Castiel said. “This cabin is warded.”

Sam chuckled nervously.

“You also said you weren’t a hunter.”

“Correct.”

“But how come you know about these?” Sam gestured at the signs. “Who taught you to draw them?”

A full answer to that would sound too complicated, so Castiel said simply, “Books.”

“You gotta be a hell of a reader then,” Dean commented hoarsely from his place. “Even I don’t know this many…You’ve done the whole house, haven’t you? The walls and everything?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “However, some sigils are drawn with invisible ink, so you can’t see them until you bring the light very close.” Now that he’d said that, he felt a sudden urge to finish explaining. He took his tin box with medications and healing herbs from the dresser and turned to Sam, “Do you have any alcohol?”

“What?”

It seemed impossible that Sam had not used it as a drink before, but his expression said he’d never heard the word. Castiel took a moment to recall another one.

“Spirits. The stronger the better, but I believe wine would help as well.”

“Oh, that…” Sam smiled in appreciation. “Sure, we have some. Whiskey’s all right? If Dean hasn’t finished it…I’ll go have a look.”

Dean caught him by the elbow before Sam could even get up.

“No. I won’t drink it.” He turned onto his healthy side and winced, biting his lower lip. “Just…wanna keep my head clear.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you, Dean, but I’m not offering you a drink,” Castiel said. “I only need to clean your wounds. Although it remains to be proved, hellhounds’ teeth are most likely poisonous.”

Dean shivered, apparently remembering the beasts that had attacked him. Without further objection, he let go of Sam’s elbow and watched him leave the room. When the door creaked shut, he rubbed his eyes and looked up.

“You saw them, didn’t you?”

Dean didn’t elaborate, but Castiel knew he meant the dogs.

“Partly,” he said slowly.

“What part?”

“Silhouettes…or rather, shadows…Actually, I didn’t have much time to examine them.”

“We did,” Dean said, “and you know what? We didn’t see a damned thing. Nothing, not even just a bit. We heard them, but nothing else. You wanna tell me what it means?”

He was squinting against the lamp, his eyes reflecting tiny flickers of light, as if the fire was performing some weird dance inside them. They seemed somehow at odds with his intense, searching look. Dean probably felt he was missing some important detail and failing to find it.

Castiel moved the lamp away and forced a shrug. “I don’t know.”

“The hell you don’t.”

“I’m telling you the truth, Dean.”

Luckily for him, at that moment Sam entered the room, thus cutting off this dangerous conversation.

“Whiskey,” he announced, raising a leather-upholstered flask. “Not the best one, though, but I hope it’ll do.”

“Absolutely,” Castiel said. “Are you ready, Dean?”

Dean exhaled a vague snort and, with effort, stretched out his injured leg.

Castiel asked Sam to bring a pot of water and moved a stool to the bed. From his box, he took everything he needed for the upcoming work and placed his items neatly around. The whiskey flask was towering in the middle like a general commanding his army.

Sam bent down to take Dean’s torn clothes off.

“Hold on, Dean,” he said, trying to speak easily, “I think it’s gonna be bad, but we can’t waste our last whiskey for nothing.”

“Shut up and get to work,” Dean hissed. He clenched his teeth and shut his eyes.

They got going together—while Castiel was cleaning and treating the wounds, Sam was holding Dean in place by the arms (with his outstanding strength that fit the task perfectly). Sam did not joke anymore. His expression was serious and determined, all the gestures precise and calm. Obviously, it wasn’t the first time that Sam was seeing his brother wounded—and some old scars that Castiel had spotted on Dean’s body proved this assumption—and he knew it wasn’t the last. Deep inside, Castiel was slightly envious that Sam’s hands never trembled. For some reason, his own weren’t as steady.

Dean fainted twice, but apart from that he stoically bore the whole torture in silence. By the time Castiel had finished with suturing, his patient was hardly paying attention to anything around him. His forehead was wet with sweat, his lower lip bitten through, but no complaint from him ever followed. He only showed a hint of interest when he saw Castiel taking a pounder and small bottles with dried herbs. He looked up at Sam, mutely delegating him to ask a question.

Castiel saved them the effort.

“ _Plantago_ , _fumaria_ and _artemisia_ ,” he listed the Latin names, showing his bottles in turn. “Or, in other words, a blend of ground plantain, fumitory, and sweet wormwood. This combination is helpful for healing and against fever…should be helpful, I mean. Considering the cause…” he stumbled again, but then went on, “I have no experience with the consequences of such injuries, so I cannot guarantee it will help. However, in my perception, neither it will do any harm.”

Sam swallowed and nodded, visibly impressed.

“I see.”

“I hope you don’t mind?” Castiel asked him.

“Oh, no…Of course, I don’t. Please go on, father Cas…” Sam halted in hesitation and said, “Sorry, I’m just surprised you’re so good at this. Healing and everything…For me, you’re doing better than a licensed doctor.”

Castiel coughed to hide his confusion and looked away.

“I’ve had a lot of practice here,” he said at last. “And, actually, I read some good books on healing herbs…in past years. My…former commune didn’t allow outside doctors to treat the sick, so we were required to have some knowledge, um, internally. Very basic things, I have to admit, but sometimes useful.”

He carefully put his herbs between the layers of bandage and went on applying them. When he finished, Dean’s left leg and side were securely hidden under thick dressings of the cleanest fabric Castiel had found in his closet. Dean’s right elbow, obviously not bitten by the hounds, but still damaged, got the last remains of medicine. Suturing used up all the silk thread, three bottles of herbs had nothing but the bits of powder left on their inner walls, and even Sam’s flask was now empty. This latter loss, Castiel admitted to himself, was confoundedly annoying.

He covered Dean with a spare blanket, splashed some water onto his hands, wiped them dry and turned to Sam.

“I believe, that’s all I can do,” he said.

“Thank you,” Sam reached out for a handshake. “You’ve…really helped us out. I’m sure Dean will join me when he comes to…Thank you, Castiel.”

“You are welcome, Sam.”

Sam shook his head as if not accepting this formal tone.

“I mean it. Honestly, you’ve helped a great deal.” He frowned slightly, then went on, “But I’m wondering…How did you happen to be there? At the mining camp, so…luckily for us?”

“I presumed you wouldn’t leave right away.” Castiel glanced inadvertently at the bed, but Dean was still coming round, his eyes half-shut and fixed somewhere on the wall. “I had a feeling Dean didn’t heed my warning.”

“He did,” Sam sighed, “but it didn’t help.”

“I’m not sure how it could, because whatever I say, you seem to do the exact opposite.”

Sam shot back a guilty glance but said nothing. Probably, it wasn’t even his idea to break into the mining camp (and, specifically, the mill, which alone was nearly a suicidal intention). Of the two brothers, Sam appeared to be more reasonable and cautious, so perhaps he had simply been following Dean. However, Castiel could still not understand what made Dean suggest this—having demons following their steps on one side and hellhounds on the other. With everything Castiel had learned about Dean, this plan was ridiculously reckless even for him.

Castiel walked up to the window and looked outside. It was the darkest hour, just before the dawn; distant hills, bushes, and the night sky were all merged into solid blackness. No hint of light, no hint of life protruded from it. The cabin with its lit window was in dangerously full view.

“What are you going to do?” Castiel asked.

Sam took a moment to join him.

“To tell the truth, I don’t know,” he said in a sad voice. “I don’t think Crowley will forgive us again.”

“Me too. Crowley never does anything without reason. His motives might be unclear to us, but he always knows what he is doing.” Castiel paused a second, then went on, “To be completely honest, Sam, I don’t think he ever wanted to let you go. He didn’t stop you because he knew you would not leave. He knew you would go to the mines. And he knew you wouldn’t get out of there alive.”

Sam gave it some thought. “So he knows about the dogs?”

“Of course. Everybody here knows about the dogs, but Crowley has some kind of control over them. I would even say he is able to command them somehow. These hounds are obviously the creatures of Hell, and so is Crowley.”

“Damn…I didn’t think about it.”

It appeared to be the first time Sam was swearing aloud like that, Castiel thought with unbidden compassion.

“I told you he was cunning and dangerous,” he noted, but then it occurred to him there probably had been some reason for this persistence. “What did you need at the mines?”

He expected Sam to answer, but suddenly heard Dean’s weak voice instead.

“Silver.” Apparently, he was still delirious, as what he’d said made absolutely no sense.

Castiel turned round to face him.

“I beg your pardon, Dean?”

“Silver,” Dean repeated, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He propped up on his good elbow and was staring around, clearly dizzy due to blood loss. “We gotta get that silver…Tell him, Sammy.”

Castiel felt the moment of truth was coming. He looked up at Sam expectantly.

“So?”

“Well,” Sam started with a shrug, “it’s actually why we are here, father Cas. We have to get a few samples of silver ore mined at Eldorado Canyon. Yesterday morning, when Benny showed us the camp, there was a full cart of ore, but by the night it was gone…” He paused at the word and added hastily, “But we weren’t going to steal! We’d pay later…Dean promised me we’d pay.”

“This is fair,” Castiel said. They didn’t look like thieves anyway.

“Yeah, so…We just got nothing and went back to one of these abandoned mines, you know, beside the mill. And then the dogs came out of it…You know the rest.”

Sam went silent. He didn’t reveal a lot of detail, but the whole picture became much clearer now. They were after silver—Crowley’s silver—and were ready to face anything for the sake of it. Castiel frowned.

“Your Colt ran out of silver bullets,” he said thoughtfully.

There was a moment of silence, then Dean said, “Yes.”

“So, that is why…All right, but I don’t understand…” Castiel cut off and shook his head. He seemed to forget this was none of his business. “Never mind.”

Dean looked at him sharply.

“What?”

“Nothing. I am sorry.” He stepped back to a small table and mindlessly started to sort the books sitting there in attempt to hide his embarrassment. “It just came to me that without silver bullets, you have no real weapon against Crowley and his henchmen. And, considering the gun itself is not available anymore, you have no weapon at all. This is…worrying.”

“We’ve had worse,” Dean said.

“He is right,” Sam protested, “and you know it. We have nothing. Even with the Colt, we were vulnerable, but now…We can’t fight demons with bare hands.”

At this, Dean sat up on the bed.

“I’m not giving up. You hear me? I’m just not…And neither are you, Sam. We’ll find another way. We always find that damned other way, and we’ll do it again.”

His palm was pressed tight to his side, where the bandage was covering his injured body. He was wincing with pain, but his expression was stubborn and angry, of someone who had nothing left to lose.

“You’ll ruin my work, Dean,” Castiel told him, “lay down.”

“No, wait,” Sam approached the bed and hunkered down. “What other way? Tell me, ‘cause I wanna listen. Tell me before the demons get us nailed, all right? Before we lose again.” He ran his fingers through his hair and waggled his head. “I should've had gone to the war with Dad.”

Castiel cast a side glance at Dean who had not said a word since Sam finished speaking. Sullenly, with his eyes squinted, Dean was staring at his brother in painful bewilderment, undoubtedly hurt by being accused of all manner of offenses by someone so close.

_He doesn’t deserve this._

“It isn’t any better, Sam,” Castiel said. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”

“And you do?”

“And I do.”

Castiel managed to say this in his most even and dull voice, the one he used when speaking to strangers (and others who he’d preferred to be strangers). Sam wasn’t either of them, but he needed to calm down.

The combination of words and the tone they’d been said it had its effect. Sam pursed his lips, momentarily resembling his brother, then dropped his head.

“I hate it,” he mumbled helplessly, “I just hate to be trapped like this…Like, whatever we do, we fail, ‘cause there is always something stronger, something we can’t fight…In the war, we’d at least be equal.” He awkwardly patted Dean on the hand and looked up, “Sorry. I—I didn’t mean it…So…What do you have in mind?”

“Nothing yet,” Dean replied, voice harsh due to a recent injury that still wasn’t gone. “But I might come up with something after a mug of coffee. Cas, would you please? Uh, and I don't want to overstay my welcome, but it would be just awesome to get something to eat as well.” He glanced at Castiel with a much softer expression and winked, “Only for medical reasons.”

“I’m afraid I have nothing but the bread,” Castiel said. “I wasn’t expecting any guests.”

Sam got up quickly.

“We’ve got some coffee left, and a few scones too. I’m gonna get them.”

Dean made an unhappy face. “No jerky?”

“Guess not anymore…but I’ll check for you.”

Sam rushed to the door.

Castiel followed him to get fresh water for the coffee pot and also to catch a moment to think. He couldn’t imagine what Dean was going to come up with. Now that they had attacked the mill, Crowley would certainly double his demon garrison, and Sam and Dean would be spotted from a mile away. They wouldn’t even be allowed to move around the town anymore—unlike most of his men, Crowley was not a fool. With just their knives, the brothers would have literally no chance to survive a battle against him, and even if they had, the other demons would complete the job.

They hadn’t asked for his advice, though, and probably wouldn’t, but for once in a long time, Castiel had a strong desire to help them. These two even weren’t his friends. Most likely they would be gone before dawn, and yet he couldn’t resist it—as he somehow couldn’t forget Dean’s gaze. The desperate, daring, hopeful gaze of a person endowed with a sense of responsibility and care. Just in this brief moment, without any words said, Dean had told more about himself than in the whole day previously. And, Castiel had to admit, he liked what he’d learned.

He filled the pot and was rummaging for a small fire-pit he kept outside the cabin when Sam hailed him.

“Father Cas, I was wondering if I could ask you something.”

Castiel straightened. “Yes, Sam?”

“I was thinking…Uh, it’s such a little thing…Well, all right. If what Dean suggests seems to be too insane, you’ll tell him, won’t you?”

“Maybe,” Castiel said, tilting his head aside. “Why?”

Sam shifted from one foot to another, then looked away.

“Just…Maybe if you tell him, he might listen.”

“We barely know each other.”

“I don’t think so,” Sam said with a lame smile. “You’ve helped us, you’ve saved Dean’s life…What you’ve done for us isn’t that little.”

In Castiel’s experience, this was less than little, but he decided not to mention it.

“If I don’t like his plan, I’ll tell him in all honesty and try to dissuade him,” he said. “But…actually, I doubt he has any plan at all.”

“That’s all right. Maybe he’ll have one later, if he gets some sleep and rest…What the dogs did to him…It must really hurt.”

“Yes.”

The conversation appeared finished.

Castiel boiled the water and made coffee for all. He rarely drank anything but water and now was secretly enjoying the forgotten smell reminding him of his past. Despite everything that had happened , there had been good things about his family. Coffee his step-sister had made for him was certainly one of them.

He brought the coffee pot in and moved his books away so that he could place it onto the table. Sam had already moved the stools closer and served their scarce meal right on top of the blanket at the edge of the bed—dry scones and two small slices of jerky. As if by chance, the meat was located closer to Dean.

They ate and drank their coffee in silence. After a moment of brief hesitation (and a very meaningful glance at Sam), Dean took one slice of jerky for himself and cut the other one in two equal halves.

The food had been over before anyone ate their fill. Castiel took away the oil-paper and for lack of anything else edible, refilled their mugs.

“Well,” Dean said, taking a sip, “that makes a big difference. Now we can talk about the serious matters.” He paused for a moment then turned to Castiel, “Can I have a look at your little blade?”

Perplexed by the question, Castiel stared back in surprise.

“For what purpose, Dean?”

“Just curious. So…can I?”

“Of course.” Castiel shook the blade out of his sleeve and carefully handed it to Dean. “What’s wrong with it?”

“I’d say the opposite: what’s so special about it that it could kill those beasts? ‘Cause they barely felt both our knives. For them, it was like a shot of corn to an elephant.”

“I don’t know, Dean.”

“I’ve heard that before. Try again.”

Castiel sighed. He had nothing to say.

Sam shot Dean a reproachful gaze and chipped in, “Look, we’re not trying to blame you or something…We just need to understand. Because, you know, it was sort of…weird? That blade of yours…it has something in it, doesn’t it?”

“Nothing that I know of,” Castiel replied, staring vacantly ahead.

“But it killed the hounds.”

“Obviously.”

“So,” Sam went on cautiously, “if it killed one creature of Hell, maybe it could kill another?”

Castiel finally looked up. He understood.

He reached out and took his blade from Dean’s hands.

“I won’t do it,” he said very quietly. “I will use it to defend my life if I’m attacked, and I’ll try to defend your lives in the same circumstances. You can have my word for it. But if you thought l would strike him in the back, you were wrong.”

Dean rounded his eyes. “He’s a demon, you remember?”

“He is.”

“A crossroads demon,” Dean specified, “the one that takes poor folks’ souls and doesn’t give a damn. The one that cheats everyone, the one that had sent us to certain death…And that’s just what we know for sure. Cas, don’t you think the world would be better without him?”

“Maybe,” Castiel nodded slightly, “but the meanness would remain.” He took a deep breath. “Dean, even for you, I won’t do it.” Something in these last words probably had sounded wrong, as Dean blushed and hurriedly averted his gaze. With a distinct feeling of ambiguity, Castiel kept staring at him for a few more moments, then said, “Actually, I don’t think that killing Crowley is your major goal.”

“Really? Then what is?”

“Didn’t you want to obtain the silver? And how would a dead demon help you with this? That’s why I’m saying…You don’t necessarily need him dead. If he were disabled somehow…wouldn’t that be enough?”

“Maybe,” Dean said mimicking Castiel’s tone, “but why are you protecting him, mother tiger?”

Castiel had a sudden feeling that any explanation he could give would sound like an excuse, so he said simply, “Because I owe him my life.”

Sam and Dean exchanged glances. They could not forget what Crowley had told them, and now had just put two and two together. Perhaps they tried to imagine what exactly had happened, but Castiel didn’t intend to make their guesses easier. If he was given a choice which of his memories to erase, this one would be the priority.

At last, Sam coughed awkwardly.

“Well, um…I guess you are right…I mean, about the goal. We’re not after him, we’re after the silver, right? So we need to take him down, at least temporarily, and do our job.”

Castiel shot him a grateful look. “Yes,” he said.

“That seems like an option to me. Dean, what do you think?”

Dean was still hesitating. He looked around, then rubbed his chin.

“I’m not sure.”

Castiel did not hasten him. In fact, even if Dean didn’t yet realize it, this seemed to be the only option they had, although its execution was too vague. Powerful as he was, Crowley required something just as powerful to catch and hold him securely.

“Do you have any idea what could stop him, father Cas?” Sam asked.

Castiel paused a moment.

“I think I do.”

Instantly, all Dean’s lack of focus was gone. He leaned forward and glanced up.

“Like what?”

“The devil’s trap,” Castiel replied. “Not like this,” he pointed at the ceiling, “but a moving one. If a trap symbol is carved into a bullet and shot into a demon, it binds the demon to his human vessel and makes it impossible for him to move far. He’ll stay alive, but he’ll be almost forceless.”

Dean whistled with respect. Quite obviously, this trick never occurred to him.

“Awesome. And…are you saying you have such bullets?”

Castiel shook his head. “Unfortunately, I don’t. But I know who does.” He held his gaze at Dean’s blanket, then said, “It’s quite a way from here, and I’m not even sure you’ll be able to get them, but it’s worth a try.”

“Go on.”

“The Mormon family I know owns them,” Castiel said with a sigh he couldn’t suppress, “in Great Salt Lake City.”

“Wait,” Dean frowned, thinking it over, “you mean—the one you came from? Your family?”

“Formerly mine.”

Dean tightened his lips. “But you still share the knowledge, right?”

“More or less.”

Sam scratched the nape of his neck. “Salt Lake City is about five hundred miles away. It’ll take…a week? And another week to get back. If we ride.” He moved his gaze to Dean and added, “Which I am not sure you can do at the moment.”

Dean waved him off, “I’m all right.”

“Not for a five hundred mile ride. I think we’d better use the stage.”

After a brief pause, Dean nodded and grinned. “It’s always better.” He was trying so hard not to admit the weakness of any kind. “And Cas can sit inside if he likes to. He can even read there, once we get on the main trail. It’s not as lumpy.”

Castiel shuddered. Perhaps he had to make his point clearer.

“I am not coming with you, Dean,” he said.

“Sure you are. You said it’s your family who had the bullets, right? They’ll need someone to tell them to trust us, ‘cause otherwise, we’d be making the ride for nothing.”

“You’ll have to explain yourself. They are smart people. If you mention demons, and Crowley’s powers, and everything you’ve learned here so far, they will understand. Believe me, it will be easier.”

“Easier than having a family member on board? Someone familiar and belonging to the same church? Someone who knows much more than we can remember? You must be kidding.”

“I am not. I cannot promise you’ll get the bullets if you go on your own, but I truly can promise you won’t get them if I join you. I am not the best companion for your journey, Dean.”

“But why?”

_How on Earth can a person be so stubborn?_

“Because I won’t be welcome there. Because I left the mission for reasons. Because…” Castiel halted for a moment, “Because most of what Crowley told you was true. You may choose whatever reason that you please.”

Dean scowled, and his expression darkened. It seemed that the straightforward explanation Castiel had given him was both compelling and terrifying. For a good minute, Dean was eyeing his coffee mug morosely, chewing his lower lip. Then he said, “I don’t like any.”

“My apologies. But the fact remains. I’m an outcast, an unwanted reminder of certain events from the past, now happily forgotten. They won’t talk to me, they won’t even look at me. It will be as if they’d become deaf and blind all of a sudden. I just don’t exist for them anymore.”

Saying all this as he did, aloud, in plain words, was probably one of the worst moments Castiel could remember in his life. Everything he’d hidden so deep inside was revealed in a most ruthless, unforgiving way. No matter what doubts about this story and the part he’d played in it he used to have, saying it out loud got all the I’s dotted. His miserable fate was now too real to ignore.

Dean shook his head in startled disbelief. “What kind of a family can turn you down like that?” he mumbled, his voice uneven. “Whatever you’ve done…whatever they can blame you for, it’s not what family should do.”

For a moment, his words hung in the air, unanswered. Castiel listened to the silence in a vain effort to forget the last part of this conversation, knowing very well he would never manage it.

And then, someone knocked at the door.

Castiel sprang from his seat to open it. There was a little knothole in the door at the level of his eyes, but as the night was so dark, it made no sense to peer through it. He pulled on the rope serving as a handle and faced Meg, who was standing on the porch just a foot away. She had on the same black and red dress (with all the blood spots miraculously gone) and a miniature leather jacket, barely reaching her waist. Behind her, a saddled horse stood snorting and dropping white foam from its mouth.

“Run,” Meg said, “as fast as you can. The demons are on your tail.”

“How did they get out?” Sam asked. He was by the door almost at the same time as Castiel and had heard everything. “Could they cross the salt?”

Meg shrugged. “No idea. All I know is they are out and very, very angry with you. So you’d better hurry up, boys.”

Castiel had known her well enough to distinguish anxiety from her usual casual manner. Now, Meg was alarmingly serious.

“Thank you, Meg,” he said. “This is very generous of you.”

Meg smiled derisively.

“I don’t need your gratitude, unicorn. You’ll thank me if you get out alive.”

For what it was worth, Castiel could not promise that. He simply didn’t see a way to retreat. The road to the north that Sam and Dean had arrived by started in San Juan and the mining camp was swarming with demons. With the whole of Crowley’s army on alert, there was no way out the brothers could use.

He thought of a small path alongside the river, a gravel winding road, hardly visible in the daylight and invisible in the darkness. Castiel found it occasionally when he’d been sent to explore the territory a few years ago. He rode it all along, habitually noting distinctive marks and estimating its passability for the future. He’d later sketched it on the map, but no one at the mission was interested. Castiel had no reason to ever return there and had more than vague memories of the route. He wasn’t even sure the path still existed. The only thing he knew was the sheer fact that Sam and Dean alone would never find it.

Castiel was torn between reality and will. He didn’t want to leave, but he felt he had no other choice—if he wanted to help Dean…and Sam. Having no choice—again—made him sick and want to hide, but his longing to help was nearly as strong.

“Are you dreaming?” Meg interrupted him, as though answering a question he never asked. “They’re gonna be here in minutes!” She stepped down from the porch and gestured back, “Now, take this horse, you’ll need it for a change…And for heaven’s sake, move!”

Castiel drew a sigh.

“And what about you, Meg?”

“I’ll stay here,” she grinned, fishing out a curved knife from the folds of her dress. Large enough to stab a man—or more likely a demon—the knife looked way older than any weapon Castiel had seen in the town. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

Castiel felt he didn’t want to think what would happen when she gave up.

“I’ll see my…friends to the fort and come back,” he told her. “It might take about three hours, if we are fortunate to find the right path.”

Suddenly, Meg laughed. “You’re always on the right path, Castiel. Even if you don’t think so.” Her smile faded, bringing back the former worry. “But don’t you dare come back. Lock yourself in the fort, lay out, pet your bees…do whatever you like, but don’t come back. Crowley is more furious with you than he has ever been before.”

The bad news wasn’t over for this night.

“Why?” Castiel asked, bewildered.

“Because you’ve killed his precious Juliette and Ramsey, you stupid unicorn! He valued those saber-toothed beasts higher than his demons.”

Castiel swore mutely. With so many things happening in past couple of hours, he almost forgot about the hounds. He only remembered what they did to Dean.

“Will you let me know when it’s safe to return?”

“If I say ‘never’, you’ll return anyway, right?”

“Right.”

Meg rolled her eyes, then sighed dramatically. “I’ll let you know.” She leaned forward and stretched up on her toes to kiss Castiel on the cheek. “Watch your back, unicorn.”

And, before Castiel could say his goodbyes, she disappeared into the air.

“It seems we’ve got you involved after all,” Sam said, looking up at the empty place where Meg had been standing just a moment ago. “Are you…are you all right with this, father Cas?”

_No._

“I’m not sure that ‘all right’ is the correct definition, Sam. But involving me was probably hard to avoid,” Castiel said. “Let’s go. We need to help Dean dress. Half-naked as he is, he’ll hardly ride thirty miles.”


	10. Voices in the Sky

It felt almost as bad as it looked, Dean realized in distaste as he climbed into the saddle. His left knee barely bent, his side twitched at each movement, and he was still a little dizzy, like he hadn’t slept for twenty-four hours in a row. Which wasn’t that far from the truth.

He wasn’t sure whether that was the reason why he didn’t see any hint of the path they were riding, or if the path itself existed only in Castiel’s imagination. Dean followed him almost blindly, and as he tried to keep his horse from stumbling, he wondered what magical powers led them all ahead.

Sam tailed their small procession with a spare horse (loaded with all their belongings) on a leash. As they started, he attempted to ride alongside Dean, but the invisible path was too narrow for the two of them. By the variety of worried glances Sam gave him, Dean easily guessed what the true purpose of this company was. He had to put forth all his eloquence to assure Sam he was all right. Eventually, Sam reluctantly retreated to the rearguard.

Apparently, they were not far from the river. The night air smelt of wet sage-brush, and at times, Dean heard water striking the shore softly, and a fresh breeze was touching the right side of his face. There was no other sound but horse and human breathing, and it felt both peaceful and a little scary.

They weren’t followed—at least not so far. As far as Dean knew, common demons had no ability to fly over distances, so the whole of Crowley’s army had to ride like humans, thus giving up its advantage. No one knew if the demons actually chased them, and no one wanted to take a risk. Back at the cabin, they packed as fast as they could (including having Dean dressed into a spare shirt and a pair of baggy pants Castiel gave him), but the head start they had was probably about half an hour, and it allowed no stops or rest. To get out alive, they had to keep moving on.

The path they followed wasn’t helping with this. It winded among bushes and rocky hills, going slightly up and down until it started to steadily go downward. At first merely sloping, soon it gained its run to a steeper, uneven descent onto a rocky terrain with no trace of a blazed trail.

Castiel pulled his horse up and stopped.

“I think we’ve lost our way,” he said.

“I’ve had the same feeling for a while already,” Dean grinned. “I’m just surprised it took so long. I didn’t see a damned thing since we started.”

Castiel bowed his head. “I am sorry, Dean. I took this path only once, and it was years ago.”

He spoke with such genuine guilt in his voice that Dean regretted his words.

“It’s all right, Cas,” he said cheerily. “We’ll find it.”

Sam caught up with them and looked around, trying to peer through the darkness. “I could ride forward to scout the way,” he suggested.

But Castiel shook his head.

“Will you please stay here, Sam.”

He rode a few feet away and raised his head to the sky. With the dawn coming on, the stars grew dim, the smallest of them was barely seen anymore. Yet Castiel kept studying the stardust with his intense, unblinking stare and his whole body straightened up and frozen still with tension. He looked at the stars as though he was trying to find something other than a marker—guidance of another kind. He appeared to be listening to them. He was so oblivious to everything and so self-sufficient, one could think he was praying. Only his stubborn chin sticking up like a rock shelf revealed the somewhat rebellious nature of this silent prayer.

At last, his chin stooped. Castiel grabbed the reins in one hand and gestured to his left with the other.

“There.”

The way he said it made it seem he had no more doubt. Still wondering about the reason for such confidence, Dean turned his horse round and waved at Sam to follow Castiel to where he had pointed.

Since that moment, they never lost their way anymore, and soon the path merged with a wider road—much likely the one leading up to the Spanish Trail. Castiel pulled on his horse to wait for Dean and said, “We’ve taken a shortcut. The fort is approximately twenty miles away.”

“Awesome,” Dean said, struggling to hide his relief. After prowling in the darkness for a good two hours, he felt he was ready to kill just for a chance to lay down somewhere and simply not move. He reached out for a flask of water attached to his saddle and took a big gulp.

Castiel frowned at him. “Would you like to stop for a while?”

Dean just shook his head and squeezed his horse’s sides.

They broke into a trot. Their horses, better used to carrying a heavy stagecoach, moved eagerly with a lesser burden, and within minutes a rocky path and the dark bushes were left behind. The sky was getting lighter every moment. Stars were fading away, making the three horsemen on an empty road sharp-cut as in a crayon drawing. They made a perfect target for anyone wishing to attack—desperate fugitives clinging to the delusion of freedom.

Dean narrowed his eyes at Castiel’s rigid back in a light-brown coat. It seemed he had some secret addiction to this garment, as he’d never yet taken it off. It hung a bit loose at the shoulders and on his waist, and folded around his body on the ride. As convenient for hiding guns and blades as it was, the coat looked old and cut for a different, larger frame. Whoever shared it with Castiel was probably generous and kind, but had awful taste.

_Are you missing the life you’ve left behind, Cas?_

What he had told Sam and Dean convinced Dean of the opposite. Momentarily, Dean wondered what Castiel could be feeling about heading towards the family that wanted to know nothing about him. The family that he was sure would refuse even to speak to him, not to mention deny him any help. Dean didn’t have the faintest idea which black cat had run between them, indeed, but it had to be something unforgivable. Dean just could not make himself believe it.

He recalled Cas rushing into their room, a silver blade in his hand, his eyes nearly sparking with furious blue fire; Cas listening to Crowley, pale as death but silent, wary of ruining the shaky deal they were making; Cas towering like a human statue near the saloon, watching them leave. And finally—Cas smiting the hellhounds, saving Dean’s life and later treating his wounds.

_What a vicious villain would think of doing all that?_

He couldn’t answer himself. The gentle hands that were touching him only a few hours ago weren’t the hands of an outlaw. They were soft and caring, and although there was no doubt they could kill, likewise there was no doubt they would never kill without reason.

_It would be great to have a friend like him._

“Cas?”

Castiel turned his head sideways, glancing back with an embarrassed expression as if he was listening to Dean’s thoughts all the way. “Yes, Dean?”

“You’ll go with us to Salt Lake, won’t you?”

Castiel flinched at the question, a motion barely noticeable under his coat, and averted his gaze.

“I will,” he said after a silence. “Apparently, I will.”

And Dean thought it was the best thing he’d heard during this endless day.

#

They entered the fort gates with the dawn, at the blessed hour when sun delayed bringing down its heat. Castiel dismounted to take away the poles and waved the brothers to ride in.

Sam headed straight to the well—his horse was snorting after a race and had its mouth open for water. Dean followed him, but then stopped midway, hesitant. As their intermediate target had been hit, he suddenly doubted he could make it any more. The horse’s mane was blurring before his eyes, his head was buzzing like a cast-iron boiler, and the mere possibility of putting weight onto his left leg made him sick. He shut his eyes for a moment, then let go of the reins to rub his temples with both palms. Everything was in vain. What helped him to keep his spirits up in most cases now felt like an annoying bother to a half-conscious mind.

He swayed in the saddle. He would fall if Castiel didn’t catch him by the arm.

“Are you all right?”

“I just need a half hour,” Dean mumbled as Castiel slid him to the ground. He couldn’t force himself to anything but that. “Half an hour and I’m gonna be fine.”

He limped to the fig tree and sat down, leaning on its coarse trunk. Castiel brought him a mug of water, and Dean sipped at it slowly, ignoring the light savor of grass it had. At first, he tried to watch Sam and Castiel harnessing the horses to the stagecoach and driving it out of the shed, but as the task seemed to be going smoothly, he soon gave up and closed his eyes. It felt strange to be sitting around like that, not helping Sam and not even talking to him, but yet somewhat pleasant. For a moment or two, he enjoyed the sunbeams touching his eyelids, then, overwhelmed with the warmth, he tilted his head aside. The next moment, he was asleep.

#

He woke up to a rhythmic rocking of the stage. It moved steadily, at a good speed it could only gain on a hard road. The blinds were down, hiding the sun from sight, but the heat inside the stage meant it was well into the afternoon.

The front seat was turned into a sleeping place, and Dean was laying on his side, half-bent along the joint of the cushions. His right foot was hanging down and brushed against the door at the lumps.

Across from him, on a rear passenger seat, Castiel was studying a road map, scowling at the side notes. His light-brown coat was buttoned up, and his round hat was lying on the seat beside him as if he was an occasional stranger who only joined the stage for a ride. He didn’t seem to notice that Dean was awake.

“What time is it?” Dean asked him, propping up on his elbow.

Castiel raised his head.

“About three o’clock. Sam insisted that I didn’t wake you up. I agreed with him.” He put away the map and leaned forward. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Strictly speaking, Dean wasn’t entirely fine, but he felt much better. And awfully hungry. “Do we have any food left?”

Castiel did not answer. He reached for a small sack at his feet that Dean hadn’t noticed before and pulled out a paper bundle. He only started to unroll it when Dean’s nose caught a familiar smell.

“I can’t believe it…” he muttered, barely able to hold a yell of joy. “Jerky? Where the hell did you get it?”

Castiel shrugged his shoulder, as if the answer was too obvious to give, and said, “We stopped at a little farm. The owner kindly agreed to an exchange I offered him.”

_So, it wasn’t Sam. Interesting._

“What sort of exchange?”

“I offered him honey.”

Dean nearly jumped out of his seat.

“You offered him _what_?! Damn, don’t tell me you’ve brought it all along.”

“Actually, I did. Sam told me you wouldn’t eat vegetables.” He gave Dean a slightly regretful glare and went on, “We weren’t sure about honey, though, so I’ve saved some in case you’d like to try.”

Dean could not help smiling. Castiel had saved the honey for him and declared it with the seriousness of an army general negotiating a peace treaty. It appeared, saving something (or someone) was his most preferred job. But to be honest, Dean did not mind. It felt surprisingly flattering to have someone saving things for him—even this stupid honey. Especially this stupid honey.

“I guess I’d like to try,” he said before he could stop himself. “Huh…Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel nodded slowly, holding his gaze. His eyes said he wanted to ask something, but his lips were still, just slightly parted.

It felt a bit uneasy to keep eye contact.

“Where are we?”

“Heading for a place called Santa Clara,” Castiel said a little too quickly.

Dean turned and pulled the blinds away. The stage was chasing its long shadow.

“Damn…Sam gotta be fried to a crisp there…I never slept that long before,” he grumbled. “Wait, there was something in that water you gave me, right? It tasted like grass.”

“It was papaver. It produces a drowsy feeling…but it’s safe.”

Dean crinkled his nose. He should had guessed as he was drinking.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asked, a frown back on his face.

“Just better tell me next time, all right?”

“All right.”

Dean pretended he didn’t hear a note of irritation in Castiel’s voice and focused back on the bundle with the jerky. Now that the smell had filled the interior of the stage, it was too hard to ignore. Dean reached out to the front wall and knocked at it twice.

“Sam, pull over the horses, will you?” he shouted. “Afternoon tea.”

Sam knocked back in confirmation, and in a few moments the stage slowed down, jolted on a side lump and stopped. Dean shifted in his seat to get out, but Sam outstripped him. He ducked in, wiping the sweat from his temples, and smiled at Dean.

“At last,” he said in greeting. “Hello, sleeping beauty.”

Dean mutely cursed the papaver again.

“Gave up waiting for true love's kiss,” he snapped and bit his tongue as his cheeks instantly warmed up. He didn’t even realize why he was blushing. It was too ridiculous to think a stupid joke about kisses could do it to him, and of course Dean wasn’t thinking that, but then he caught a curious glance from Castiel and sensed the heat of his ears joined that of his cheeks.

_Damn._

Sam grabbed an apple from the sack and bit off half of it. “We’ve been lucky,” he started, crunching roundly, his words hardly recognizable, and Dean had to wait until most of the fruit disappeared from Sam’s throat. Then he went on, “We got two more horses at the last station. For free.”

“How come?”

Sam took another bite and glanced sideways at Castiel. “May I tell, father Cas?” Castiel nodded, and Sam said, “You were asleep, so we went in together, he and I, and before I opened my mouth, father Cas came to the hostler and said we were in a hurry. The hostler said he didn’t have any horses left. And you know what father Cas did then? He looked the hostler in the eye and said, ‘Search again, because otherwise, you will lose the opportunity to have these four very special horses in exchange.’ The hostler laughed and looked into the window. Then he asked what was so special about our horses. And father Cas told him they were blessed and served the righteousness.”

Dean thought of the scene he’d missed and swallowed his laughter. Even in Sam’s retelling, it sounded hilarious and definitely had been worth seeing.

“And?”

“And here we are!” Sam gestured to the front of the stage. “Six nice fresh horses and a few bags of hay on top of that. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Dean shook his head approvingly and grinned, “You bet it is.”

Sam smiled.

“We ought to give father Cas more rides.”

Sam meant no more than what he’d said, but for Dean, it was ambiguous enough to avert his eyes. He sneaked a gaze at Castiel, who was silent all the time that Sam was speaking, and now had his head tilted aside in confusion.

“I don’t see why not,” Dean muttered with an awkward smile, thus closing the topic the best way he could think of.

They shared the jerky and freshly baked bread with cheese. All three of them were hungry, and even Sam, who usually preferred vegetables, helped himself to a good portion of meat. For dessert, they had nothing but honey (and Dean tasted it indeed—too sweet, but quite good with a slice of bread), and cold coffee.

Sam emptied his mug first and yawned.

“I need a nap,” he said. “At least a couple of hours. Father Cas, do you think you could drive the stage for a while?”

“I can,” Dean interrupted. “I’m all right, Sam.” He sat on his seat and straightened his left leg, demonstrating how its healing had progressed. “See? Like new.”

Sam watched him doubtfully. “Can you bend it?”

Dean saw the reason for the question. The driver’s bench was narrow and had very little space for feet. It was hardly possible to avoid bending a person’s knees to sit there.

“I can drive,” Castiel said. “I used to do it…before. But, Dean, if you want, you may sit nearby. I believe the bench is wide enough for you to settle yourself comfortably.”

“Don’t you need to sleep?” Dean asked him, hoping Castiel wouldn’t change his mind.

“I’ve had a nap already.”

And although he didn’t look like he had, Dean was selfishly glad to hear that.

#

The stage rolled forward. Horses’ hooves drummed on the rocky trail. Rusty hills were sailing by like the endless teeth of a giant prehistoric beast, lazily observing the road and ready to clasp its jaws and swallow its prey.

Castiel took the right side of the bench, sitting so close to the edge that it seemed just an inch away from him falling down. At Dean’s insistent suggestion, he finally took off his light-brown coat and had on only a black shirt with rolled up sleeves. Yet, his round hat and a clerical collar, the two most notable exceptions from the commonness of his outfit, were left in place. Sam and Dean’s stage had never had a more exotic driver.

He wasn’t lying when he said he’d driven before. His elegant hands were gripping the reins with the confidence of a professional hostler. Each movement he made to adjust the direction or speed was measured precisely, without any excessive bustle. After watching him for a while, Dean admitted to himself that Castiel was driving the stage as well as he had been riding a horse.

“You’re doing good,” he said to break the silence. “I mean, for a preacher.”

Castiel gave him a slight nod.

“Thank you.”

It was a little less than Dean expected to hear.

“Do you like it? Driving?”

“This is a worthy cause.”

“Right, but are you…enjoying it at all?”

Castiel hesitated a moment, as if the question was too complicated to answer right away. Then he said, “I think I am.”

“You’re not sure?”

Castiel only shrugged. Whatever he was thinking about, staring ahead and squinting at the sunny road, he obviously didn’t intend to share it.

Dean fidgeted in his place, trying to settle his injured leg along the bench. Stretched out across the feet compartment, it kept swaying and causing pain at each jolt of the stage. It would probably help to place it on the bench, but that would also require leaning onto Castiel’s left shoulder for back support. With Sam, Dean wouldn’t even bother asking for permission—just because it was Sam.

_Is it all right to lean on a preacher?_

He caught himself still thinking of Castiel as of a preacher, although he knew now it was false. It wasn’t even about the clerical collar, rather it was all that solemn and sad expression Castiel had most of the time. It appeared to be as much an inherent part of his being, as the light-brown coat.

Dean glanced up. The tired face next to him was peaceful and quiet, shade from the hat outlining high cheekbones and a chiseled nose. A stubbled chin was held up with the same mute dignity Dean had seen at night. Only the coat was gone.

This missing coat suddenly widened invisible boundaries of freedom. Dean took off his hat, pulled himself up, turned sideward and leaned against a black-shirted shoulder.

The shoulder tensed momentarily under him and immediately eased back in contentment.

“ _Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair_ ,” Castiel mumbled absent-mindedly, his voice so low that Dean barely heard him.

Familiar words echoed in his head, and without thinking, Dean picked up, “ _Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair_ …” he halted before he reached the next line about _the gentle tale of love._

Castiel breathed out an unreadable sound. “You know Keats?”

Dean sniffed. He did not see Castiel’s eyes, but he could swear they were round as a silver quarter.

“I just know the words,” he confessed, “I have no idea whose they are. There was a book someone had forgotten at our house…It didn’t have a cover.”

“It’s John Keats, an English poet. Very good poet, actually, although some of his verse are superfluously romantic.”

“This one is sad.”

“Why do you think so?”

“An angel’s crying at the end of it,” Dean explained. “What good is the angel’s tear?”

Castiel gave it some deep thought. At last he said, “Perhaps, you are right.” He paused at the word, then went on, “Keats died very young, only twenty-five. Damned by the critics who dismissed both the poems and the poet. He wasn’t properly acknowledged during his lifetime, but his poetry outlived him…Have you ever noticed, Dean, that being aware of the poet’s tragic fate adds another dimension of meaning to everything he had written? I find it fascinating.”

It had never occurred to Dean before, but now that Castiel suggested it, the idea suddenly made sense.

“Uh-huh,” he replied uncertainly. He wanted Castiel to tell him more about Keats, poetry or whatever else he would like to say—for the simple pleasure of listening to his voice. Deep and virtuously distant, it came from everywhere at once, as though wrapping Dean with its soft sound. “Do you know the one about brothers? _May we together pass, and calmly try_ …”

“ _What are this world’s true joys_ ,” Castiel finished. “Yes, I know it.”

“It’s my favorite.” Dean smiled to himself as a little trick crossed his mind. He sighed loudly and said, “I don’t remember it in full anymore.”

“I do,” Castiel said, suspecting nothing. “I can read it to you.”

Dean secretly clenched his fist to celebrate his victory “Awesome. Go on.”

As Castiel started reading, Dean shut his eyes, listening. He could not explain what was so magical about this voice, that it held him captive, made him narrow his eyes and hold his breath. It appeared now that the voice was coming from somewhere above, from the sky itself, like a mild and friendly thunder.

“Thanks,” Dean whispered when the poem was over.

Enchanted, he took a while to open his eyes. As he finally did, he found himself having slid down along Castiel’s upper arm, so that his head was now resting cozily on top of his shoulder, touching his neck. Embarrassed at first, he took a second and assured himself it was all right. If Castiel minded, he would be able to tell.

Apparently, Castiel didn’t, as instead he said, “You are welcome, Dean.” His tone left it unclear whether he was still talking about the poem. “I think I am fortunate to have such a truly interested listener…Meg doesn’t like poetry.”

“Meg?” Dean chuckled in disbelief. “You’ve been reading to her?”

“I tried,” Castiel said, “but her courtesy didn’t last for more than a stanza.”

Dean grinned but said nothing. No one but Castiel could come up with reciting poetry to a demon. Dean spun on the bench to look at him.

“You ever need a better audience, you know who to call,” he offered cheerily.

But Castiel didn’t smile. He tilted his head forward and stared at the reins as though seeing them for the first time. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and low.

“You asked me if I liked our journey…I wish to be honest with you.” He briefly glanced sideways, as if searching for the proper words. His expression was calm, but this calmness reminded Dean of a convict in front of a jury, tense and desperate to hear his sentence. “I’m not like you, Dean. It’s been years since I traveled this far. So it’s…different for me. Riding a horse, driving your stage, having company…Even seeing this road. This is very unusual.” He raised his head and squinted at the sky. “But I like it now.”

Dean frowned. Some vague thought kept haunting him like a restless ghost.

“So…Why?” he asked at last.

“Why—what?”

“Why haven’t you left before?”

Castiel crooked his mouth in a sad smile.

“It just didn’t make sense.” He turned halfway to look Dean in the eye and added, “What’s the point of leaving if you have nowhere to go?”


	11. A Gallant Knight

The afternoon shift Castiel had volunteered for was forty miles in the distance and had three stops at the stage stations. It would take six hours of driving, if things went smoothly, and an uncertain amount of time if they didn’t. And the probability of the latter was increasing each half hour.

He was bone-tired, so tired that he was too exhausted to sleep. He felt his brain was dead. His passengers were lucky that holding the reins didn’t require any brain work, otherwise they’d end up in a ditch.

Soon after the last station, Dean dozed off again. He was still weak, and although he put on a brave face about being all right, it didn’t escape Castiel how Dean was wincing with pain at each movement, and how he kept pressing his palm to his injured side. With all his stoicism, these wounds had to be causing considerable pain and discomfort. Castiel checked on them earlier and found their progress satisfactory. In a few days, with due rest and quiescence, Dean would be healed.

_By the time we reach Great Salt Lake City._

For all these sleepless hours since they’d left his cabin, Castiel avoided thinking about the actual purpose of their journey. At a sober glance, unaffected by the agitation of a narrow escape, their whole enterprise was revealing its true self. As doubtful as it was that the brothers would find success, for Castiel it was an even worse endeavor, if not a suicidal one. Neither honesty nor disguise could contribute to its success, since it was Zachariah who had the bullets.

Castiel recalled their last meeting. They had been standing at the gates of the fort, all the mission’s property packed neatly and loaded into the cart, all the other brothers and sisters already seated in their wagon. Castiel had been the only one not packed, and he’d kept standing at the entrance, watching blindly as his family left forever. ‘I hope we’ll never meet again, Castiel,’ Zachariah had said then. ‘For our mutual benefit, I’d recommend you not to write us or try to come back. What you have done is a major misdemeanor that cannot ever be forgiven. It would be better for our brothers’ spirit to remain purified aside from a mere memory of you.’

Castiel had not replied—he barely had been able to speak at all. The punishment he’d gotten had been extraordinarily rare, and no one had ever told him how to behave in response. He thought later that he’d probably been expected to kill himself—supposedly doubling the sin—but his sentence was close enough to that already. With a handful of food and a malfunctioning well, he’d hardly had a chance to survive. He still could fight, but there were no enemies around—just a lonely desert. He still could walk, but there was no place for him to go.

His first weeks at the empty fort were a torment. Starving, thirsty, surrounded by blazing heat and dust, he struggled through each day and hour. The physical agony of his body was amplified by a deep bitterness in his soul, and at times he genuinely wished to be dead. At his darkest moments, he was even praying to have death granted from heaven, for he didn’t have the courage to do it himself. All hope abandoned, he was clinging to life with a primary survival instinct—the last of his instincts not overridden by despair.

He was praying to the Lord, but instead appeared Crowley. Full of energy and obnoxiously glossy, dressed up like a New York stockbroker (later Castiel learned that his guess was almost accurate) he observed the fort yard, the buildings already covered with a layer of red dust, and an empty shed. Only then he came to the fig tree where Castiel had been sitting, barely conscious due to hunger and thirst. Crowley sneered and took a little spider off Castiel’s shoulder. As he introduced himself, his eyes flashed red.

And then there was a gap in Castiel’s memory. He didn’t remember what had happened next. The only thing he knew is that he wasn’t dying anymore. When he came to, Crowley was gone without a trace, and in the place where he’d been standing, sat a large basket with bread, cheese and flour, a cask of water and even a bottle of wine. Next to it towered a pile of clothes. A preacher’s clothes with a white clerical collar.

Ironically, a demon saved what the Lord didn’t need.

And Castiel accepted this gift. He tried to be a good preacher and, he hoped, a good man. He helped the people of San Juan whenever he could, using his previous skills. He never took money for his service (although it was offered quite often) and only allowed himself to accept gifts of food. Not due to arrogance—whatever had been left of that had been eternally buried in the fort’s dry soil—he just didn’t feel it to be the right thing to do.

It was much later that he learned to grow edible plants, cleaned the well and brought new bees to inhabit the beehives. The climate that nearly killed him at first eventually helped him: his little garden was flourishing in the hot sun, supplying modest but sufficient meals. Once he’d started his walks to San Juan, home-made honey brought him the money he didn’t have.

His new life, although very simple, gave him something he had never had before—freedom.

The family that raised him had done so in a deliberately strict way. Rules always had to be followed precisely, orders never discussed and faithfully obeyed. At twenty-three, Castiel knew nothing but the isolated life in the commune, had no occupation but practicing his combat skills, and read nothing but the fifteen books of the Mormon Bible. His life was as uneventful as a snail’s, and as predictable as a seasons change.

Until one day his brother Gabriel took him to New York.

The world beyond Great Salt Lake City overwhelmed him. It turned out to be full of things he’d never seen and, more importantly, people he’d never met. There were gentiles of every kind: gunmen and dealers (Gabriel called them ‘suits’), immigrants from the Old World and native-born frauds, artists, singers, and many more. He heard all kinds of dialects, some of which he could hardly understand. Those days, New York was so crowded with Irish, German and Italian families that a usual English one was a rare minority.

Unlike Gabriel, he wasn’t interested in places with loud music and strangely dressed women. (For some reason, even mundanely dressed women didn’t really attract him.) Castiel asked their hotel-keeper which places of interest he could recommend, and after a long meaningful pause, he was advised to visit Astor Public Library in the East Village. Too startled by a new, completely unknown city to argue, Castiel thanked the man and followed his advice.

Eight hours later, Castiel left the library building feeling like an entirely new person. Even after the seemingly tiny amount of reading he accomplished, Castiel had discovered an endless source of human knowledge, amazing in its variety. He nearly cried at the thought of all the time he’d lost in his younger years, mercilessly cursing himself for ignorance. Eventually, he delegated all their chores to Gabriel and spent all his days at the library. On their way back, they were charged additional twenty dollars for luggage due to a valise full of books that Castiel was carrying.

Later, he often thought that this journey had changed his life forever. It sowed the seeds of cognition into an awakening soil of natural curiosity, and there would be no return to the past. He was desperately looking forward to meeting this new world again, to get closer to it, and try to understand it. He continued educating himself on all the subjects he could think of—history, biology, medicine and world culture. As opposed to practical science, poetry was his reward, his precious pleasure which he kept secret to himself with a manic thoroughness. The risks were high—in the community, reading had never been regarded as a worthy cause. Besides manual labor, the only unpunished occupation was praying.

Yet, Castiel still felt hungry for more knowledge of the real world. He dreamed of it and longed for it. A few months later, in the spring of 1855, he accepted Zachariah’s offer to join the mission heading to the South-Western outskirts of Utah—Las Vegas Springs.

But his high hopes for diversity had not been realized. Of the party of thirty travelers, only twenty were settlers. The other ten, including Castiel, were well-armed soldiers taken along to provide protection and, as it was officially titled, to ‘teach the locals the gospel of Jesus Christ’, regardless of the means. While the others were building the fort and planting vegetables, the garrison of Destroying Angels was fighting. They had a wide variety of targets to apply their skills to, from Indians and Mexicans to white outlaws and immigrants, presumably menacing.

A conscious choice for some, and an occasion for others, the garrison assembled a brutal fighting unit. Each of its members could smite the specified target in a deadly hand-to-hand attack, hit a squirrel in the eye at a hundred feet, blade-fight against five combatants, and even apply military tactics whenever necessary. Each of them was duly trained and entitled to kill by order. Each of them had no indecision or mercy. Quite surprisingly, in command of them was a woman—Anna, an experienced warrior and Castiel’s step-sister.

Castiel did not blame her for what had happened. At times, visiting her small grave outside the fort wall, he wondered whether there had been any other choice for them, but found no answer. At least, unlike Anna, he was still alive.

He wished it helped him now, not actually believing it could.

#

Dean stirred on the bench and woke up.

“What’s the time?”

Castiel suppressed a yawn. “I don’t know. Afternoon.”

“Uh…and how long have you been driving?”

“I don’t know.”

At this, Dean sat up, blinking sleepily, and looked around. Castiel frowned as a pleasant weight from his shoulder was gone, but said nothing.

“Must be around six…” Dean muttered, squinting at the lowered sun. Then his gaze lifted to Castiel. “Man, you look terrible. You didn’t sleep at all, did you?” Not getting any answer, he went on, “Sure you didn’t. Come on,” he patted his own shoulder, “it’s my turn to be a pillow. Gimme the reins.”

He took them himself before Castiel could think of any protest.

“I don’t think I’ll sleep, Dean,” he sighed, but still took off his hat. “And I’m not sure this is appropriate for me.”

“You’ve made a vow of insomnia?”

“No. But…I shouldn’t be perching on your shoulder like that.”

Dean forced a grin. “Well, I did it, and the sky didn’t fall.”

“You are wounded.”

“And you are tired. Come on,” Dean repeated stubbornly, “just for once, forget you’re a preacher, all right? Heaven can wait.”

This was becoming ridiculous. Castiel had neither the will nor the energy to argue any further. He moved a little closer and eased his head onto Dean’s shoulder. It was wiry and strong, and felt very comfortable.

He shut his eyes, but sleep did not come. After years of solitude, it was strange to be in such close proximity to someone. Brushing his cheek against the fabric of Dean’s shirt, inhaling a mixture of smells from his body, sensing a wide muscular chest rising with every breath. All these feelings were very new, astonishing and forbidden.

Perhaps, with someone else, Castiel would not allow himself that inappropriate freedom. It was more likely that he’d dash away in horror and shame at the mere thought of it. He wasn’t entirely sure, but everything he’d seen in the Mormon community (and even later in San Juan, not without Meg’s gracious assistance) told him that leaning on another man’s shoulder definitely wasn’t in the Lord-approved list of things. If he were a real preacher, he’d probably have instant retribution.

But somehow with Dean, things seemed deceptively easy. He was different from everyone Castiel had talked to before—so much so that it was hardly believable. He represented some other universe, the one Castiel had only guessed could exist. Dean was nice and agreeable, sometimes a little blunt, but this was the honest, sincere bluntness of a man who had seen enough to not waste himself on being evasive. He was easy to chat to and equally easy to stay silent with. He was interesting and unpredictable, resilient and merry, and although Castiel felt he was missing some of his jokes, he knew they were amusing. None of his past acquaintances had ever joked like that with him (apart from Meg and Crowley, but it felt wrong to take them into consideration now). And finally—Castiel could not help noticing it—Dean was temptingly good-looking.

_Does it count as a sin?_

He half-opened his lips to whisper Dean’s name, taste it with his tongue. Even mute, it had its tiny clinking sound, like a bell touched by a bird’s wing. The name felt vulnerably soft and incredibly vigorous—precisely like its owner.

His thoughts started to tangle. It seemed he’d dared to enter the Labyrinth of the Minotaur and was now standing hesitantly with a ball of twine in his hands, longing to go and scared to get lost.

Already falling asleep, Castiel imagined himself in the center of the maze with the twine left unrolled.

#

It was evening, when Sam knocked on the wall, announcing he was awake. To Castiel’s surprise, Dean obeyed almost immediately and pulled the stage over.

They were on the road for more than twelve hours, with a hundred miles behind them. Their horses, tired and thirsty, were waggling their heads and snorting. Around them, where an eye dared to look, stretched out a red sandy plain studded with scarce trees and sage-brush, looking like sleepy sheep standing still on a dried meadow. The sun was setting down.

“I could make it to Santa Clara,” Dean said, as Sam crawled out of the stage and came to them.

By Castiel’s estimate, the distance was at least twenty miles. Dean, struggling to keep his head up and blinking with fatigue, looked barely able to make it. Of course, he never complained, but there was no doubt he needed to rest.

Obviously, Sam thought the same, as he rolled his eyes and said, “Get inside. I’ll water the horses and drive on. And don’t argue.”

Oddly enough, Dean didn’t. He leaned on Sam’s shoulder and slid down from the bench, avoiding putting weight on his left leg. He took a moment to catch his breath and sank heavily onto a stage step.

Castiel jumped onto the ground and stopped, uncertain whether he was expected to join Sam or Dean. He’d got some sleep (although clearly not enough) and could help with driving if Sam asked him to. But Sam was already busy with the horses, hauling them to a narrow creek, so he said nothing.

Dean appeared reluctant to leave. He was sitting motionless, his bad leg outstretched awkwardly, his head bent to the door frame.

“Cas?” he called, as he guessed he was being stared at.

Castiel made a step closer. “I’m here, Dean.”

“I was wondering…Do you have any more of this papa-whatever thing left?”

“I do.”

“Uh…I think I’d like to borrow some of it…But not as much as the first time, all right?”

“Of course.”

Yet, Castiel did not move. It suddenly occurred to him that it was pretty weird for Dean to acknowledge he needed a sleeping potion in such an explicit manner, and possibly there was some other, hidden meaning behind his innocent question. Nothing had been said with words, though, and it could as well have been nothing but his raging imagination. If Dean looked up, it could add some clarity, but he wouldn’t, and Castiel kept on staring at him and waiting.

What he never expected at all was Sam’s voice, alarmed and loud.

“Father Cas!” he shouted, already running back to the stage. “Father Cas, look! Over there!”

Castiel turned round abruptly. Sam was pointing at the road ahead of them. There, in a swirling white cloud of dust, was a group of horsemen, approaching at full speed. They moved incredibly fast, nearly flying over the ground, and within mere moments, on top of the cloud appeared colored feathers, swinging in the wind, and painted faces.

“Indians,” Dean gasped, struggling to rise from his step. “Damned Indians, Cas…”

Getting closer every second, now the Indians were distinctly recognizable. At least twenty of them, all with long black hair and strong bronze bodies only covered with traditional loincloths, all riding excellent horses. Bows and arrows dismissed, each of the Indians had a Baker rifle in his hand. Castiel could discern familiar little eyes and flat noses.

“Pah-Utes,” he muttered, feeling his blood running cold.

He was frozen still, confined by a living nightmare he’d tried to forget for so long. It returned in a most vicious, ruthless way, leaving Castiel helpless in the face of it. Dozens of voices in his head started yelling with anger and screaming in horror, women burst into hysterical cries that wouldn’t muffle even behind a clatter of hooves. Painted cheeks and foreheads were hovering before his eyes, melting into some unrecognizable faceless mass. Castiel’s back was throbbing with pain so agonizing he could hardly breathe.

His hesitation lasted only a few moments, but he was so immersed in this semblance of a dream that his mind barely registered anything around him. He hardly heard Sam and Dean hastily talking to each other, and only woke at the chattering of the arms—and a voice calling for him.

“Cas!” It was Dean, his voice more impatient than ever. “Get your ass in here, now!”

He and Sam were already inside the stage. Dean was lying on his stomach across his seat, a loaded rifle in his hands. Sam was taking out more rifles and guns from an underfloor compartment.

The earthiness of their actions, ridiculously nonchalant, had a somewhat sobering effect on Castiel. He flinched as if he’d been struck, and at last dashed to the stage door, shutting it behind himself.

“The hell you’ve been waiting there for?” Dean snapped, sounding worried rather than angry. “Sit and keep out of the way.” He lowered his head to aim. “Sam, you ready?”

“Yes.” Sam raised the two Colts he was gripping in each hand.

“All right. Let’em get closer, no firing until they’re like fifty feet away…Now, on my command…One, two—”

He didn’t finish his countdown as Castiel interrupted him.

“Stop,” he said firmly, sitting at the edge of the seat, perfectly aware he’d be blocking the door (and the shooting range) with his body. “It might be worse than you think.”

“What’s worse than _that_?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Dean propped himself up, leaving his rifle for a moment. “Cas! No, wait, man…”

But Castiel wasn’t listening. He silently took one of Sam’s Colts, leaned his shoulder against the stage wall and shifted the window curtain aside. When the Indians were about thirty paces away, he slid the barrel of the gun through the window at eye level and fired.

There were five bullets in the Colt, and all five obediently hit their targets. Castiel wasn’t aiming to necessarily kill—he only needed to knock the horsemen over. His unforgotten skill worked out fine. The first five men jerked their hands up and collapsed onto the ground, dropping their rifles. Their horses, left without riders, began darting around chaotically, obstructing the way for others. Castiel put the smoking gun away and rubbed his left palm, itching from hitting the loading lever.

The Indians halted to rearrange their depleted forces. After a moment or two, they started to dissipate, obviously intending to circle the coach and attack again.

Castiel let them assemble into an uneven crescent. And then, he reached for his collar, took it off and opened the door.

“No!!” Dean screamed after him.

Sam was shouting something too, but Castiel paid them no attention—if he had to die today, he’d die alone. _And not before the Indians paid dearly for that_ , he added to himself.

He came down to the road and started walking towards the horsemen—bare-handed, alone. There was no particular fear inside him, and no hesitation. His only remaining feeling was determination— a cold-blooded readiness to act. At some moment, a thought crossed his mind that in fact he’d never got rid of all this, never forgotten how to fight, as though he’d been born with a silver blade in his hand.

The Indians raised their rifles. Bewildered at the sight of that stupid man at first, they quickly turned to praise what looked like good fortune. Someone let out a militant cry, immediately echoed by the others. As if by command, all the painted faces grimaced, and bare chests rose in anticipation of upcoming prey. The horses stopped shorting and hitting the ground with their hooves and moved onward.

There weren’t more than thirty feet between them when Castiel raised his arms and stretched them out towards the Indians. He stopped still with his palms open and instinctively tilted his head a bit down, glowering at the Indians.

Seconds lasted painfully slowly. Castiel stood listening to his heart hammering, counting off his time slipping away. He did not move, did not even breathe. It seemed his whole entity was concentrated at the tips of his fingers, leaving nothing but an empty shell.

A horrifying thought of failure struck him. The horses paced forward steadily, the heavy smell of their bodies was already in Castiel’s nostrils. A few moments more, and he would be shot point blank.

But then, suddenly, they stopped. All at once, the Indians were not moving anymore, as if they’d hit an invisible wall. They kept on waving their rifles and arms, screaming with forceless anger, squeezing their horses’ sides—but they could not approach an inch closer. Their rifles weren’t even firing, as the bullets simply wouldn’t come out of the barrels. They were just stuck in the middle of an empty road without any explainable reason.

Castiel’s arms were still raised. It felt like holding a cloud, but a very thick and very heavy one. His fingers whitened with effort, his palms were starting to tremble. This mystical skill he owned required an absolute commitment and did not work otherwise. And—he remembered it well enough—it had never lasted for more than a few minutes.

Fortunately for him, the Indians didn’t know that. After their every attempt to approach the stage failed repeatedly, and their rifles turned out to be useless, they eventually put two and two together.

They turned their horses back.

Castiel watched them going away and felt sweat running down his spine. It was only after the distance between him and the Indians reached a hundred yards that he allowed himself to put his arms down. He suddenly realized his whole body was shaking as if he had a fever. His arms, stiff with tension, hung down lifelessly. He barely felt anything but exhaustion.

He gave the road his last blurred glance and dragged himself back to the stage.


	12. Wanted

Sam’s eyes were round like a full moon. Dean could not see his own, but most probably they looked the same.

He cleared his throat.

“Ca-as?” he said cautiously, rubbing his chin. “What the hell was that? If you don’t mind me asking.”

But Castiel wasn’t looking up. He stood by the stage door, head bent low, face hidden by his stupid round hat. He looked so tired it was unclear how he was still holding himself upright. Dean frowned, wondering if it made sense to haul him into the stage before he fell.

“You’ve ruined Dean’s moment of glory,” Sam said with a smile. “Surely he dreamt of smiting them all alone.”

“Shut up, Sammy.”

Castiel lifted his head slightly and finally faced Dean, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

“Alone?” he asked.

Dean rolled his eyes. “He’s joking.” Deep inside, he wasn’t so sure—such jokes usually had a grain of truth. But after what they had seen, he didn’t want to mention it. “You haven’t answered, Cas.”

“I am sorry,” Castiel admitted, nodding. “What was your question, Dean?”

He was really on the verge of falling, Dean thought suddenly. He shifted to the very edge of the seat so he could reach out to Castiel (and possibly catch him) and leaned forward.

“I asked you what the hell was that,” he repeated in an easy voice. “What you’ve done with just your bare hands…Huh…We’ve seen stuff, you know? Weird stuff. Very weird. Wendigos, ghosts, banshees, demons…But nothing like that. I mean, uh…I mean, from a human.”

Castiel flinched and straightened up.

“Do I get it right that you doubt my human nature, Dean?”

“No,” Dean responded a little too hastily to sound sincere. “No-no-no, I just…I’m just curious how you did it.”

Apparently, Castiel detected Dean’s embarrassment, for he turned to Sam and stared at him intensely.

“And you, Sam? You doubt too?”

Sam took a deep breath.

“Father Cas,” he said in his best friendly manner, “you’ve shot five people dead in like five seconds, and then sent another fifteen away without even touching them. I’ve…we’ve met folks able to manage the first part, but no one to do the second. So…like Dean was saying—how did you do that?”

Castiel sank tiredly onto a stage step, where Dean had been sitting before, and took off his round hat. When he spoke, his voice was more of a stutter, low and husky.

“Well…You deserve an honest answer, but an honest answer to your question would be—I don’t know. I failed to perceive the exact mechanics of this…ability long ago.”

“Ability?” Sam asked.

“Or power. I know neither its nature nor name. I only know that sometimes I can withhold certain objects without touching them.”

“Objects,” Dean put in. “Like Indians?”  

“Like anything,” Castiel agreed. “Almost anything. On some days it works better than on others, and on some days, it wouldn’t work at all. I’m not aware of its origin, I only use it.”

Bewildered, Sam and Dean exchanged looks.

“Nothing comes out of nothing,” Sam pointed out, obviously citing some boring book.

“Nothing can be created out of nothing,” Castiel corrected him. “ _De Rerum Natura_ by Lucretius. I am so glad you read it too, Sam. Did you like it?”

At least he was clearly feeling better, Dean noted to himself, trying to figure out how to stop this sudden literature lesson. A familiar topic had even brought back some color to Castiel’s pale cheeks, and although he still looked weary, he wasn’t about to faint anymore.

Before Sam could answer, diving deeper into dangerous waters of some ancient lore (or whatever it was), Dean raised his hand.

“Dammit, Cas! Stop stalling. How did you get that bloody skill?”

“Life is one long struggle in the dark, Dean,” Castiel said obscurely and breathed out a sigh. “I don’t remember getting it.”

He said it very calmly, in a manner of an honest man simply telling the truth, but Dean wasn’t convinced.

“Wait, what? You don’t remember how you got it?”

“No.”

“No strike of lightning, no Eureka moment, no voices in your head?”

Castiel shook his head. “Nothing.” He paused a moment, then went on, “In the past, I was trained to use this power, but I think I’ve always had it. It’s just been a part of me, like my name.”

“How long?” Sam asked him.

“As long as I remember.”

“Ever since you were a kid?”

“I don’t remember myself as a kid,” Castiel said reluctantly. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing else to tell.”

Although his vague answers didn’t shed any light on the mysterious power to which they owed their lives, Dean felt that further interrogation made no sense. Still, he could not stop himself.

“You were going to tell us something about the Indians,” he reminded.

“I was.” Castiel turned around and pointed at the road, where five dead bodies were lying in the dust, well-forgotten by their mates, and horses were wandering around. “It’s getting dark. Let’s check their saddlery.”

And with that, he put on his hat, got up and walked away, preoccupied with his intended mission. He paid no attention to the two stares drilling his back.

#

Eventually, Sam followed him. Dean knew that with his leg, he’d be of no use and merely watched them chasing and catching the horses by their loose reins. In a split second, he found himself thinking he was actually watching only Cas—his precise, skillful movements, his tanned arms sticking out of rolled-up sleeves, his stubborn chin lacking the shade of the hat. Now, he didn’t look like a preacher. He looked anything but.

_Cas, what are you?_

Time for any further speculation didn’t last. Sam and Cas were already coming back with the Indians’ horses behind them. Both looked gloomy.

“Found anything?” Dean asked.

“Yeah…” Sam handed him a folded sheet of yellowish paper. “Guess you know what it is.”

Dean did. He’d seen hundreds of such placards—pinned to ‘Wanted’ boards at stage stations. He unfolded it.

There were all three of them. Sam, Cas and himself, hand-drawn in a rash, sloppy manner, as if an unknown artist had a gun to his head. He most probably had. Sam’s curls were reaching his shoulders in a ladylike style, despite the hat. Dean himself was pouting like a fifteen-year-old who’d missed a village fair, and Cas had no hat at all, his hair as disheveled as after spending a night in a haystack.

“This Da Vinci did a hell of a job,” Dean smirked. “I wouldn’t recognize us.”

“Well, you don’t have to,” Sam said. “But it worked for the Indians. And it’s gonna work again.”

Dean gazed at the placard again. A printed caption promised a thousand-dollar reward to anyone bringing them in dead or alive.

“I’m definitely missing the time when the Indians were happy with glass beads,” he said scowling at the amount. “Could’ve been enough for all Crowley’s silver and a nice celebration afterward…Where did it come from, by the way? Don’t remember us breaking the law.”

“Seriously?” Sam grinned, but his face remained moody. “I’d say we had our days.”

Castiel took the placard from Dean’s hands and studied it with a deep frown.

“This may have nothing to do with your days, Sam,” he said with an emphasis on ‘days’, as though unfamiliar with the word. “This…I would rather assume this is a farewell gift from Crowley. He has…connections beyond San Juan.”

“Connections,” Dean repeated, “I see. He’s working faster than we drive, isn’t he?”

Castiel nodded. “Exactly.” He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. “We have to keep moving on.”

“Horses are tired,” Sam said.

Castiel glanced at him and pointed at five new horses they’d caught.

“Take these.”

#

The Indians’ horses turned out to be stronger than usual stage ones, but at the same time, they weren’t accustomed to the harness. It took Sam and Castiel quite a while to arrange them into an order (accompanied by one of the least tired horse they’d had before) and team. As the stage finally moved on with horses both at the front and at the back, it resembled a two-headed monster—very slow, but horrifying.

Sam took his turn to drive. Dean and Castiel sat inside, peering at the side windows every minute or two, more pretending than really seeing anything. The sun was gone, its last glimpses lost in a distant pile of clouds.

They decided not to stop for the night at Santa Clara. As tempting as it was—getting a room and maybe something but dry bread to eat—the chance of encountering someone else with a placard was too high. If Crowley had been consistent, his joke just made them the most wanted people across the whole country.

At Sam’s suggestion, before hitting the road, they used all the disguises they could think of. Sam put on an embroidered shirt (once presented to him by one very thankful widow) and hid his long hair under a postal serviceman’s hat. Dean changed his vest to a striped serape, and for Castiel they found a big top hat and rimless glasses. Amused by the change it made, Dean struggled to give him something else, but Castiel shot him a clearly displeased look, ending the discussion.

Their masquerade, though very amateur, surprisingly passed its first test in Pinto, a small town standing half a mile from the main trail and looking as quiet as any such town would look at midnight. Not without effort, Sam woke up the hostler and after a few minutes talk, didn’t arouse any suspicions. Dean and Castiel watched them through the blinds, ready to interfere, but apparently, the postal outfit and good-natured expression Sam had put on did their job. In less than ten minutes, they finally got rid of the spare horses—with enormous relief and enough cash to replenish their food and water (and, on Dean’s insistent request, whiskey) supplies.

The stage wheeled on.

Exhausted, Dean fell asleep quite quickly. He didn’t wake as the stage stopped for Sam and Castiel to change seats, and woke up only next morning. He missed three stations and six hours of driving, but his body was genuinely grateful for that. Although his injuries still hurt, Dean was pleased to find out he could finally bend his knee (halfway) and stand straight without crouching to grasp his left side (almost). Castiel’s healing skills, indisputably better than his awkward explanations, deserved to be praised for that, and Dean whispered his gratitude when no one was watching.  

Through the whole day and later in the evening, Dean was waiting for Castiel to speak. His sudden torpor at the sight of the Pah-Utes, his spontaneous rush into battle, and most of all his mysterious power—everything Dean had seen in only a few hours, was like a haunting song. Thinking about it more, he also remembered some of the earlier events, still unexplained. The way Castiel was fighting, his silver blade, so well-fitting to his hand that it seemed to be its natural extension, and on top of that was another intriguing mystery—Castiel could see the hellhounds. Despite his hunter’s experience, Dean did not believe in the supernatural vision. His gut instinct told him there had to be some reasonable explanation behind it, he just didn’t know which exactly.

But Castiel kept his face inscrutable and remained silent. He so obviously refrained from speaking that when he finally opened his mouth, Dean nearly jumped in surprise.

And what he said had nothing to do with what Dean expected to hear.

“Did you enter any of abandoned mines, Dean?”

“Uh…You mean the ones with the hounds?”

“Yes.”

They were sitting across from each other, and although Dean enjoyed seeing Castiel’s face— _damn, it became him to look so serious_ —he was somewhat missing the intimacy of sharing the driving seat.

“I did,” he said. “Well, we both did, but Sam was too big to crawl in, so I had the pleasure. Why?”

Castiel paused a moment, then said, “I was thinking…Why would Crowley keep the dogs in there?”

Dean blinked and stared back. This question should have occurred to him hours ago. In fact, it nearly had, but then the dogs appeared, and Dean forgot about everything. Neither he nor Sam ever came back to it—until now.

“To guard the silver ore?” Dean supposed.

At this, Castiel jerked his head up.

“What silver ore?”

“I saw it,” Dean explained, “in the deep of that mine shaft. At least a few lumps, as big as my head.”

Now Castiel was looking at him sharply, his eyes wide-open.

“Are you sure it was silver, Dean?”

Dean shrugged, pretending it wasn’t someone’s blue eyes that made him look away.

“Well, I’m not a miner, so…But it looked damn similar.” He frowned, trying to recall more detail. “It really looked like silver, Cas, kind of shiny and soft at the tip of the knife. Strange, isn’t it? Benny told me these two shafts had been mined out.”

“That’s right. They were closed for mining about six months ago,” Castiel said. “Soon after Crowley came to town.”

“So recently? I thought the son of a bitch had been there like forever.”

“No. At first he only visited his mines, MacLeod’s Glory. He appeared and then vanished, quite occasionally, and never stayed long. After he…rescued me at the fort four years ago, he didn’t come back for months. And when he did, he made every attempt to seem human. Most people didn’t even know who he was. He looked so normal that you wouldn’t ever guess what his real nature was. Until it was too late, of course. He only settled down this spring.”

This was an interesting point. Surprisingly, Crowley had been plotting his plan well in advance, and whatever it was, his patience was outstanding. Dean didn’t realize yet how it could help them but made a mental note.

“Do you know why?” he asked. And with a sudden urge to check his earlier theory, he added, “It has something to do with the silver, doesn’t it?”

Castiel nodded. “Eventually, yes. But also…” he cut off, as though suddenly uncertain, and Dean gestured him to go on. “Well, Meg told me something about a conflict Crowley had encountered with his commanding demons.”

Dean winced against his will. The mere mention of Meg still made him angry. And, if he was entirely honest with himself, it made him a little jealous too.

“What conflict?” he asked reluctantly.

“I’m not sure…Apparently, Crowley had a competitor in his business, they were fighting for some higher position within their environment. In…” he stumbled at the word, “In Hell.”

“And what happened?” Dean asked, inadvertently intrigued.

“Crowley lost.”

“Poor thing,” Dean giggled. “But I guess Meg gave him some solace?”

Castiel furrowed his eyebrows disapprovingly. “Your assumption is ridiculous. Meg is not his ally, and she never was. Actually, she hates him.” As Dean smiled wryly, Castiel went on, “She is his hostage.”

Dean’s mouth opened wide in surprise.

“His—what?”

“Are you hard of hearing? His hostage,” Castiel repeated. “She is the daughter of Crowley’s enemy. That is the reason why she is still alive. Crowley needs her as a guarantee for his own safety.”

“But can’t his competitor find them?”

“He can, of course. From what I’ve heard, he is quite powerful. But Crowley has his own little army that keeps an eye on the road, as it were. The moment his enemy appears on the horizon, Crowley will be gone. As well as Meg.”

“Demon wars,” Dean whistled. “Fascinating. That’s what he was talking about…I mean the agreement they had made.”

“Yes. So, Meg has certain immunity. And…” Castiel paused a moment, looking away, “And she was so kind as to include me within its parameters.”

Dean squinted at him.

“Did you know then that she was a demon?”

Castiel gave him a long look.

“When you are shot in the back, someone being a demon is your last concern.”

Dean held his breath. _Damn._ Someone had shot Cas— _some bloody bastard had shot Cas_ —cowardly and mean, and it was Meg who helped him. It didn’t really matter what had happened, but she was the one to save Cas and win his trust and friendship. Meg-the-demon (and a daughter of a demon). It hurt to think about in a way Dean had never thought it could.

_Is it because humans only betrayed you?_

He saw Castiel’s lips were moving, but no word reached Dean’s mind. He just suddenly wasn’t hearing anything but his own pounding heart.

“Dean?” Castiel reached out to Dean’s arm. “Dean, are you listening?”

With effort, Dean exhaled. He didn’t manage to make himself glance up at Cas.

“Yeah…” he muttered. “What were you saying?”

Castiel shot him a hesitant look. “I said I was wondering about that silver.”

Still thinking of shooting bastards and helping demons, Dean winced at the change of subject.

“What about that silver?” he said. “It just was there.”

“Yes, but why?”

“Huh…I had no time to investigate, all right?” Dean gestured impatiently, “What are you getting at?”

“Dean, I am very surprised,” Castiel said. “When the mines were being closed, no one ever reported there had been any silver left. Do you think one could have missed these silver ore lumps?”

Dean recalled himself sitting inside the mine shaft, staring angrily at its black walls, as Sam was holding a match. They hadn’t been looking for silver, but they had literally run into it.

“No,” he said confidently. “No way. Even a mole would notice it.”

Castiel’s expression changed for a moment. “How would a mole recognize silver, Dean?”

He had a frustrated and wary look of scholar caught on forgotten Bible verse. Dammit, Dean thought, he wasn’t kidding.

“Cas, forget the mole. Just take my word for it, all right? The silver ore was in plain sight. I could’ve hit it with my head if I moved any further.”

“How deep inside did you reach?”

“A few feet, maybe? Like, I didn’t measure it, but it seemed pretty close to the entrance.”

“And the lumps of ore were already loose?”

“Yeah…” Dean cut off, struck by the same thought that was probably bothering Castiel. “Wait, you mean, it shouldn’t have been like that?”

Castiel shook his head slightly, and his glasses nearly slid down. He propped them higher on his nose with his index finger and immediately resembled a Sunday school teacher. What he said next amplified the effect.

“Silver—or rather quartz—ore is not supplied in pieces. What you probably saw was the ore already prepared for the refinery. Initially, it has to be cut out of the mine shaft with picks and shovels. Sometimes, with harder rocks, they use explosives. But it’s never loose in the beginning.” He sighed and added, “Your description makes me think that these lumps were placed there deliberately.”

Dean thought exactly the same.

“But I don’t get why,” he said. “Why would someone store it there instead of taking them to the mill?”

Castiel brushed his cheek with his hand. He looked thoughtful and a little anxious.

“The only reason I can think of is that _someone_ ,” he paused meaningfully at the word, “didn’t want them to be refined. _Someone_ could have even taken them to the mill, but later decided he didn’t want them.”

He fell silent, and Dean went on for him, “Someone didn’t want the silver he could get money for. Right, yeah…Quite a stupid someone, wasn’t it?” He glanced up, and Castiel nodded at him. “So what are we gonna do?”

“I don’t know yet, Dean.”

“We’ll find out, I swear we will,” Dean promised. And then mumbled, “Greedy bastard, if he’s throwing his silver away like that, why is the reward he’s offering for us just a thousand dollars? We’re worth at least two.”

#

Their journey went on with no critical obstacles. The postal stations they stopped at for a horse change turned out to be so busy these days that the hostlers barely paid any attention to the stages passing by. Once or twice, Dean noticed familiar placards on the boards, but either their resemblance with the drawing became too poor, or the postal clerks did not really care. Nobody asked them any questions, nobody tried to stop them—to Dean’s secret disappointment. He wouldn’t refuse an opportunity to see Castiel’s magical power in action once again.

But there was another matter that occupied his mind.

With a third of their route behind them, Dean started to suspect something in him had changed. When the stage passed Beaver, a relative midpoint of their journey, Dean lost his remaining doubts. Now he was certain: he wasn’t the same Dean anymore that had been driving here a week ago.

Thinking about it, he could not clearly distinguish the change. It definitely wasn’t something he could see, it rather was hidden under the layers of his clothes, and even deeper inside. His mind felt blurred in a way Dean had never experienced it to be before, as if his thoughts, not so ideally organized under normal circumstances, went on the run and didn’t hurry to return.

Every subject he tried to ponder on inevitably turned out to be entirely different, and while the initial subject varied, the destination they ended up at was the same. And by strange coincidence, this destination had very familiar features. Thoughts about silver, when taken through a winding path of facts and theories, led Dean to the mystery of a silver blade Castiel was keeping in his sleeve. Horses needing a change reminded him of a blistering horseman, dashing from the darkness of the night to save Dean from the hellhounds. Even the stupid ‘Wanted’ placard came up in his memory with a drawing of amusingly wild-haired Castiel.

Of course, it wasn’t just Castiel’s looks (although Dean had to admit his looks played a certain role as well.) But to a much greater extent, it was a feeling of overall virtue. Despite the secrecy Castiel kept about himself, and regardless of his mysterious powers that no one could explain, soul-wise, Dean trusted him. Sure, it was a different kind of trust than the one he shared with Sam, but apart from his brother, Dean could not remember anyone else he wanted to trust so wholeheartedly. Not only with his life—for this, he had a team of hunters scattered around the country, good folks and reliable friends—but also his inner self, a disorderly combination of doubts, fears, concerns, and desires. The latter, hidden so well that at times Dean tended to forget they ever existed, were so frighteningly sinful that he wouldn’t confess having them under pain of death.

But then, with Castiel, the idea of letting someone get close enough to sneak into his soul was suddenly turning out to be not so ridiculous. On the contrary, it felt safe and easy, and furthermore, with Castiel, it felt like the only right and natural thing to do. For the first time in Dean’s life, giving it a try was appealing.

_If he wasn’t a preacher._

Basically, this was the main thing that stopped him from taking any possible action. The other obstacles, including all the obvious complications of that kind of relationship, appeared to be beatable. After all, Dean was lying his whole life, he was lying _professionally_ , so one more lie wouldn’t change anything. It was such a small price to pay for the chance he’d got—a chance as incredible as the person who represented it. It seemed like someone had already made a choice for him, picking up this weird, caring, dangerous, smart, mysterious and faithful friend. Like someone’s hand had weirdly drawn them together, like glass figurines on a mantelpiece, to fill the emptiness in Dean’s heart.

He avoided thinking whose hand it could be. He only wondered if Castiel—Cas—felt in any way similar, at least a little. Or felt anything at all.

Because actually, it seemed he did.


	13. Survivors

The stage headed North, making about seven miles per hour, and on the third day reached Fillmore, the geographical heart of Utah. They never met any more Indians (which was objectively unlikely so far from the tribe’s territories), and the permanent worry their small team was experiencing began to gradually recede.

They kept driving in shifts and changed every three or four hours. As Sam was the only one having the appropriate outfit for a postal driver (even after years away from a civilized world, Castiel guessed that Dean’s striped serape would appear too extravagant), it was mostly left to him to handle the horse changes while Castiel and Dean pretended to be passengers. They did not leave the coach though, as Dean was still limping and it would be best to avoid demonstrating this special mark to the possible recipients of Crowley’s demon mail.

Sitting on the high driving seat or looking out of the window when he wasn’t driving, Castiel tried to remember the area. He barely recognized it—he had only spent six years in the Far West, yet the trail had changed dramatically. There were new towns and stations with good supplies of water and provisions, and the Old Mormon Road itself became smoother and wider. The traffic of oncoming migrant wagons, crawling to meet a new life, was getting denser every few miles.

Castiel eyed weary, dusty faces of men and women, almost indistinguishable from each other. Silver, he thought bitterly, was making people trade everything they had for a life on the road for a very doubtful profit. Only a lucky few of them would reach the promised land and possibly make a fortune. Others were bound to fail, despite the years of struggle to survive in wild, hostile areas. Watching the trail so far, no one could tell the difference.

Only the sky was the same as Castiel remembered it—very high and blue, with light clouds sailing above the mountains. Castiel had never seen a sky like this in San Juan. He nearly forgot how much he missed it.

At sunset on the fourth day, the stage approached Nephi, the last significant town before Great Salt Lake City. Over the years, it had doubled in size, now having nice new buildings along the road. All of them were facing East, where majestic mountains were squeezing a narrow Salt Creek, and their true king, Mount Nebo towered, almost as high as the skies.

They had not planned to stop here, but Castiel could not resist the temptation. He pulled the stage over and called for Sam and Dean.

“That would be a good place for a rest,” he said cautiously, not asking and not suggesting.

Dean poked his head out of the window.

“We’re not climbing these mountains, are we?”

“No.”

“Then I’m fine. Sam?”

Another head showed up next to Dean’s.

“Yeah…Looks really nice. You know any particular place, father Cas?”

Castiel frowned. Last time he was riding here, Nephi was just another new settlement with barely a dozen buildings in it.

“I’ll see if I can find it.”

The choice turned out to be an easy one. Next to the stage station they had to stop at, Castiel spotted a long wooden building with its doors open hospitably and a distinctive smell of meat cooked on an open fire coming out. In New Mexico, it would have a saloon sign, but the virtuous traditions of Mormons renamed it as a modest ‘Guesthouse’, written in innocent white paint.

They stopped by the stables. Sam found the hostler to arrange the horse change and came back smiling.

“I’ve seen a stage shed over there,” he said. “If we rent it, we could stay overnight.” He looked at Castiel, “Do you think it’s safe enough?”

“I’m positive, Sam,” Castiel said with a nod. “It’s Mormon territory. Crimes are rare here.”

“How come?” Dean asked. He was grinning as though Castiel’s statement teased him to give it a try.

“No one wants to be punished,” Castiel explained. “And here, the…authorities do not need ‘Wanted’ placards to locate fugitives. Utah has its own laws, Dean.”

Dean’s grin faded as he heard that. Whatever he had known about the Mormons, this new information dampened his enthusiasm.

“Uh…all right,” he muttered, “then we’ll behave. Sam, go take the shed and come join us at the saloon, will you?”

Castiel rolled his eyes, “The guesthouse, Dean.”

“Whatever.” He took off his serape and tossed it onto the seat. “Hope my pure innocence and good spirit pays with a mountain-size steak.”

#

Dean and Castiel entered the guesthouse and looked around. Most of the tables were already taken; the visitors, mostly men, sat sipping at their drinks and poking forks around their plates. The clientele was mixed—migrants, busy-looking merchants, a few nuns in white aprons, leaning to each other like startled birds. Near the hearth, there was a group of Union soldiers in dusty blue uniforms and wrinkled caps. Some had well-worn bandages on their arms and heads, some kept their crutches leaning against the wall.

Dean pointed at the empty table next to them, “Let’s sit there.”

Castiel would prefer a different place but said nothing. As Dean limped to the table, Castiel followed him, trying to keep pace.

One of the soldiers turned around at their approach. He looked at Dean from head to foot and squinted at him.

“Blue Mills or Barbourville?” he asked.

Dean halted, staring at the soldier and clearly caught off guard.

“Come again?”

“Your leg,” the soldier said, glancing down. “A Confederate’s gift, isn’t it?”

Apparently, these were the recent theaters of war and battles that Castiel and Dean knew nothing about. In an instant, Dean’s cheeks turned red. For some reason, the soldier’s obvious delusion inadvertently hurt him, as though he was blamed for desertion. Even with this not being true, it felt mean and unfair. The war that Dean and Sam were fighting had no army behind them.

Castiel pulled a chair and moved it closer to Dean, wincing mentally at how awkward and helpless his attempt to interrupt looked.

But Dean didn’t sit down. He kept standing still where he was, his cheekbones moving slightly under the skin, his gaze fixed on the veteran.

“Uh…” he muttered. “I’m…I’m not a soldier, I’m just…you know, sort of…Uh, never mind…A long story.”

The soldier raised an eyebrow in confusion, taking a moment to think. “Well, good for you,” he said at last. “”Cause it’s gonna be Hell. It already is.”

Some of his companions nodded with approval and relief. Even with the injuries each of them had got, they were coming home alive. The veteran who talked to Dean only had his arm in a rope sling.

“Where are you coming from?” Castiel asked him, taking his seat.

“Missouri River. The 3rd Iowa Volunteer Infantry Regiment, at your service,” he touched his cap jocosely. “Now dismissed.”

“Going home?”

“Yeah…Waiting for a stage to San Francisco. Haven’t seen my family in five months…No, six.” He shook his head angrily, “Man, I’m getting stupid with this war.”

As he went on, Castiel sensed that Dean’s suspicious past wasn’t a matter of interest anymore. The recent war memories of these people were too overwhelming to be disturbed by minor facts like limping strangers.

Dean felt it too. He slouched his shoulders and finally took his chair.

“How’s it going…over there?” he asked in a low voice.

“It could be worse,” the soldier said. He reached out with his good arm and smiled, “I’m sergeant Tom Walker, by the way.”

Dean eagerly returned the handshake. “Joseph Totten.”

Castiel frowned at the name, but Dean secretly gestured him to keep quiet.

Tom Walker looked up. “Wait, ain’t you a relative of general Totten of Connecticut?”

“Oh, no…Just a namesake. Coincidence.” Dean smiled easily and drew a breath. With the immediate danger gone, his voice wasn’t so tense as before. “So…what’s the word? We’ll win, right?”

Walker narrowed his eyes.

“You’re curious?”

“Sort of,” Dean responded, looking away. “My dad is over there.”

He had mentioned it before, Castiel recalled, but then he hadn’t sounded so serious. These soldiers could barely guess what had been hidden behind this casual phrase.

“Mr. Lincoln is a great man,” Walker said without a hint of hesitation. “I trust him. He won’t lose.”

Looking slightly jealous, Dean pursed his lips. “Have you met him in person?”

“My commander did, and he said lots of good things about him. And John Scott…that’s my commander, bless his soul…John Scott is good too. Six hundred men he had, only six bloody hundred against three and a half thousand! And I’ll tell you something else. Of these six hundred, we lost just fifty-six people, and that’s a hell of a miracle. I tell you, man, a true miracle.”

Dean bent his head as a sign of respect, but there was something in Walker’s words that made Castiel lean in closer.

“How was that possible?” he asked. And, noticing the few disapproving looks he was shot, added, “Will you please forgive my ignorance, gentlemen. I’m not military.”

“My friend has been on a civil service over the last few years,” Dean helped him. “Like…um, very civil…And what you’ve said, it’s sort of hard to comprehend right away…You stood last-ditch, didn’t you?”

Walker scoffed.

“You bet,” he said. “We had only one cannon, can you believe that? And we hauled it by hand as we retreated. Four miles by hand!”

“And we saved it,” the other man added. “Lost five men, but saved the cannon.”

“It was heavy as a mass of rock,” the third said, shaking his head. “I still can’t believe we did it.”

“Under a hail of fire,” Walker put in proudly.

Dean was listening to them open-mouthed, his eyes bright with excitement. It was probably the first war story he was being told, so he could not (and did not attempt to) hide his feelings.

Castiel did not share them, though.

“It is a great honor for me to be sitting next to you, gentlemen,” he said. “Considering all the circumstances, this is truly amazing that your…unit has suffered such a small number of casualties.”

“A miracle, I told you,” Walker repeated, nodding more to himself than to his audience.

Castiel looked him in the eye.

“Would you mind telling us a little more about it?”

Dean glanced sidewards, trying to catch what Castiel was getting at, but after a moment, just picked up the game.

“May I offer you something to drink?” he said, smiling. “Whiskey for everyone. That’s gonna be all right?”

The soldiers’ weary faces brightened. Rousing cheers followed, and at Dean’s command, a servant boy brought a tray with glasses and a bottle of bourbon. Dean reached out to fill everyone’s glass, then turned to Castiel with a questioning look.

 _He isn’t sure if I drink_.

Castiel wasn’t sure himself—he never tasted anything stronger than beer. When he  still lived in Utah, he kept himself away even from valley tan, the Mormon interpretation of whiskey, for it smelled of sulfur so badly that it seemed it had been made by demons. Yet, now it felt awkward to refuse, when everyone else was about to drink (and Dean was holding the bottle in a very inviting manner). Castiel sighed quietly and took his glass.

They drank to victory. Walker emptied his glass first and grunted contentedly.

“So what do you wanna know?” he asked, clearly more at ease with speaking. Not waiting for an answer, he went on, “That cannon…As God is my judge, this was the heaviest cannon ever made. We were dragging it through the mud, under rain like the Flood, and the folks kept asking me, ‘How far, sergeant? How much further?’ And I was like ‘I wish I knew’…”

“You are genuine heroes, sergeant,” Castiel said. “The only miracle about it is the one of human courage and endurance.”

“Brown would argue that,” Walker said with a grin. “And the others too…Caldwell, Larry Fowles, Little George Addams. They all would argue that, man. ‘Cause they knew for sure.”

Castiel felt they were about to hear something very important.

“What did they know?”

“They knew they wouldn’t die, that’s what.”

At this, Dean, who had been only listening to the conversation so far, gave a soft whistle of disbelief.

“Sorry, I’m not buying that…Everybody dies. Sooner or later, but every damned one dies, no matter what.”

Walker shrugged. “Not if a prophet said otherwise.”

“A prophet said they’re not gonna die?” Dean repeated. “You mean, a _real_ prophet?”

“Real like you and me.” Walker filled his glass again. “A man in his forties, civil like a dentist or something, well-dressed. Look, I wouldn’t believe it myself, but not after what I’ve seen.”

Castiel took his glasses off and stared at him.

“What have you seen?”

“He came to our camp before the battle. And he said, like, the ones with true faith could get out alive…And he asked who was interested. I don’t think anyone took it seriously, but a few folks went to talk to him. And after they talked, each of them said it was worth it, for it was only about faith with all your soul…And who would refuse that? We all trust in the Lord, you know, so it’s nothing but making it clearer.” He gulped. “So the next day, our regiment moved to Liberty to fight the Confederates. And everyone who met this man came out alive. Not a scratch.”

“It could be plain coincidence,” Dean noted, his voice somewhat uncertain.

“Maybe,” Walker agreed, “but not in this case. Larry Fowles was in artillery, one of a dozen gunners. As a volley came in, all of them were killed—all but him. George Addams, an infantry sergeant like me, got trapped under fire. Again, six dead, all except him. Caldwell…oh, that one is funny…Caldwell stayed at the camp that day, he had a fever. No risk, no nothing. And then that bloody rain starts, and the hospital tent collapses because of all the water, right above where he was lying.”

“And all dead except for him?” Dean prompted.

Walker winced a little. “Not all, but many. Some only got hurt due to the broken roof. But Caldwell…” he paused at the name, “Caldwell came out like new. And with no fever.”

“Amazing.” Dean’s expression became thoughtful. He was getting closer to the truth too. “So you took it that this man was a prophet?”

“What else he could be?” Walker said. “If he could foresee the future like that? To know everyone’s destiny for certain?”

“Well, it’s not what you face every day, but…How did he do it? Did he have a crystal ball to look into or something?”

“No.”

“And,” Dean went on, “he only asked for faith?”

“Only that,” Walker bent his head. “Faith and soul.”

Castiel held his breath. With this last word, his worst suspicions about the real nature of the ‘prophet’ came true.

“Did any of you meet this prophet?” he asked.

The soldiers shook their heads.

“I wish I did,” Walker said, lifting slightly his wounded arm. “But he’d left the camp before my turn came.”

Dean raised his eyebrow. “There was a queue?”

“As long as this house,” one of the soldiers told him. “We just wanted to try our luck. And why not, if it’s just a brief talk? It’s better than Sunday sermon anyway.”

They only wanted to try their luck and trusted their souls to a demon, Castiel thought. Their luck was to survive this war—which could well happen without anyone’s assistance—to be definitely taken to Hell shortly after it. In making this deal during the human war, these soldiers didn’t even know they were doomed to become a part of much worse one. But what kind of demon would be so obscure about it? Perhaps things had changed, and Castiel was simply not aware of new traditions in deal-making.

“That prophet,” he said, “what did he look like?”

Walker frowned. “Like…like a gentleman. Dark frock-coat, top hat…”

“And a shorty, right?” Dean interrupted him. He pressed the sharp of his hand to his shoulder, “Like, this high?”

The soldiers shook their heads.

“He was taller than you.”

Dean pursed his lips in disappointment. It seemed, he had already convinced himself that the other name of the fraud prophet was Crowley.

“Right,” Walker confirmed, “he was like…Like that one!”

Smiling, he pointed somewhere behind their backs. Abruptly, Castiel and Dean turned round to look.

There was Sam, walking along the guesthouse tables and waving at them with his hat.

#

Sam introduced himself as Alfred Terry, but actually there was no need to lie anymore. Right at the moment he joined them, one of the soldiers noticed that the stage had arrived, and the whole company hastily headed towards the door.

Neither Dean nor Castiel spoke as they watched the soldiers leaving. Sam took a moment, then looked at them in turn.

“What have I missed?”

“Everything,” Dean scoffed. “Things you didn’t want to know about the war.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean…”

“I tend to agree with Dean,” Castiel said quietly. “Well…in general.”

“So give me the details.”

Eventually, Dean told him what they had learned. Considering his mixed emotions about the subject, he was exceptionally concise and straight to the point, although descriptions like ‘lousy bastard’ and ’stinky prophet’ were, in Castiel’s opinion, slightly excessive. Probably, their unknown demon would be more flattered than offended to hear these nicknames.

Sam listened, scowling at his drink (by mutual agreement, they ordered some more whiskey to ease the waiting for their roasted meat and beans). As Dean came to how the soul trade was progressing, Sam’s expression changed from gloomy to worried.

“You mean, he is not even telling them the full story? And these soldiers just sell their souls for nothing?”

“Well, surviving a ceiling crash is not literally nothing, but that’s…sort of less than the folks could bargain for themselves.”

“The deals I’ve heard about,” Sam said bitterly, “involved something important, some matter of life and death, and something the person already knew he wanted. It wasn’t just, you know, general luck or that kind of thing. And, Dean, crossroads demons never took the lead to offer a deal, they always waited to be summoned.”

Dean nodded, “Exactly.”

“So why this one is different? Why is he visiting military camps like that?”

“Like a fox visits a henhouse? Well, that’s the question.” Dean sipped at his whiskey. “Maybe it’s just easier.”

“In what way?”

Dean wiped a droplet from his chin and looked up.

“If you were looking for books, Sammy, not just one, but many books at once, where would you go to get them? You wouldn’t be poking into each house on your way asking for a book or two, right? You’d go straight to the library.”

Sam still looked bewildered. “So what?”

Castiel, who was listening silently, a glass of whiskey settled comfortably in his hands, felt he had to interfere.

“In this analogy,” he said, “this demon is a collector that doesn’t bother to waste his time on single deals. He chooses places with a lot of people already scared to death, and takes their souls, um, in bulk.”

“And there’s no better time and place for that, than war,” Sam finished for him. “Now I get it.” He dropped his head and muttered, “What a bastard…”

“There’s no argument about that,” Dean said. “I bet Crowley knows him.”

“He definitely does. But we both know that he won’t tell us anything,” Sam sighed. “I wonder how many camps this demon has visited already.”

Dean tilted his head as if making calculations.

“In seven months? All of them.”

Sam pressed his hand to his forehead and groaned.

Castiel watched them talking, but said nothing. He became a little (or perhaps not so little) lightheaded; the whiskey he kept sipping felt itchy on his tongue. After his second glass, he came to the conclusion that the taste was rather pleasant, and he liked it.

Even more than the taste, he enjoyed the company of these two men, discussing the possible case so openly that there was no more room for mistrust. It had been only a few days, he thought suddenly, barely a week that circumstances put them together, but for Castiel, with his previous solitary life, it felt like a year. It appeared he had got used to seeing Sam’s concerned frown and to listening to Dean’s jokes long ago. The black stage, now familiar inside and out, keeping invisible records of Sam and Dean’s lives, felt friendly and welcoming as his own lonely cabin never did. It felt like home.

Ridiculously enough, Castiel did not recognize himself as a stranger to Sam and Dean anymore. With all the effort he took to keep an appropriate distance, every next day it became shorter and shorter. Small talks they had amongst each other, travel chores, their joint plans—everything he somehow became closely involved with was consistently ruining his sustained defense. It seemed the extent of self-disclosure he had reached by now, at this occasional guesthouse, left his old fort far behind.

“Cas, you still with us?”

Dean’s voice broke into his thoughts like a gust of wind hitting the window, strong and persistent.

Castiel flinched and looked up.

_Whom am I trying to deceive?_

He knew precisely what was happening, and this knowledge did not help him feel any better. Whatever reason he tried to find for what he was doing, it was no longer about their righteous mission. Somehow, incomprehensibly, the whole matter narrowed down to a very exact point. The one having a soft rumbling voice and freckled cheeks.

Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose and put his glasses back on.

“Of course, Dean,” he said.


	14. Great Salt Lake City

Great Salt Lake City had not gotten the first word of its name for nothing. Lying at the edge of an endless plain, surrounded by a wall of mountains rising so high that their tops were lost in the clouds, it looked majestic. The view was as breathtaking as it was terrifying: it seemed that nature itself had placed a settlement here. No matter how much larger it grew, it would never overtop the mountains and would still be negligibly tiny in comparison to them.

They had passed by Salt Lake before and more than once, but every time they didn’t have a chance to study it closer. Now, watching the city from a high stage seat, Dean genuinely enjoyed what he was seeing. (And he couldn’t help thinking that this was not just a beautiful city, this was Castiel’s home city, which made things very different.)

In fact, different it was. Salt Lake was probably the cleanest city Dean had ever visited. Its streets, wide enough for four stages at a time, had no trace of the usual litter and smell. Neat little houses of red brick sat facing each other like a line of soldiers. Even the people strolling along the streets looked nauseatingly tidy. In ten minutes, Dean counted zero drunk or fighting men, and this observation immediately made him wish for both.

He gave up the idea of identifying the Mormons among them. To his slight disappointment, the men and women of Salt Lake City looked as ordinary as any other, and judging by their appearance, no one would recognize them as the lieges of the Mormon kingdom.

And this wasn’t a figure of speech. Cas had told them that the power of the Mormon church in Utah was so absolute that a rare true king of the world could imagine it. In addition to that, it was an ideal and very obedient kingdom. It experienced no riots, no protests, and had in its possession (and total control) a lot of hardworking people. ‘I would assume even Crowley would envy that,’ Cas had noted then, and now Dean could see this was true.

Everything in the city was kept in impeccable order, and every resident of it seemed to be extremely busy. Hammers, saws, and other tools made their constant noise all around, and when it got quieter, the purl of water from house gardens could be heard. That’s where Cas had got his gardening obsession, Dean thought inadvertently, right from these countless gardens able to feed all of America.

He glanced sideways. Cas was sitting beside him, his head bent low, his face hidden from prying eyes. As they had been leaving Nephi, Sam and Dean suggested that Cas sat inside, but got a firm refusal. He wanted to show them the way—and apparently, also to make sure it was safe.

They had spent a good half of last night discussing the plan. Dean voted for equal negotiations, Sam suggested trying to bargain a deal. Cas rejected both. ’Zachariah is very smart,’ he had said, ‘he’ll detect falseness immediately, and if he becomes suspicious, you will have nothing else to do but to leave.’ They argued over and over, tried to investigate other options, from realistic to ridiculously bizarre, but nothing worthy came to their minds. Eventually, with great reluctance, Dean agreed to play the role of a hunter in despair.

“You have to be very careful,” Cas said, not looking up.

“I’m always careful,” Dean reassured him. “It’s gonna be all right.”

“You don’t know these people as well as I do. They can be…dangerous.”

And cruel like all fanatics, Dean added to himself.

“I figured that.”

And this was another reason for Dean’s reluctance. The role he was about to play was somewhat humiliating, but after all, it was just another role of hundreds he had played before. There had been worse (although mostly better), and he did not care that much about it. He would survive this one as well.

He did not want to leave Cas alone.

Dean remembered word-for-word what Cas had told them about his family and how they would treat him. If only they didn’t notice him, or shoot angry looks and scowl their lenten faces, that would be all right. _But what if they tried to hurt him? Seize him? He wouldn’t fight back_ , Dean thought suddenly, _he probably wouldn’t even fight back_.

Sam was concerned about that too. In the morning, as they touched on this topic, he had said, ‘We won’t leave him behind, Dean. No matter what.’ Dean thought the same, but laughed it off, ‘Team Free Will, that’s what we are. One reluctant war deserter, one ex-hellhound dinner, and Mr. Desperado Preacher over there. Awesome.’

To mitigate the risk, he gave Cas his striped serape and the hat. It wasn’t a masterpiece of disguise, but it seemed better than nothing. Strangely enough, the outfit became Cas (like everything else Dean had seen him wearing). With his dark hair and tan, Cas looked like a retired horse trader. If it wasn’t for his blue eyes, no one would recognize him as a Utah-born. At least, Dean hoped so.

They entered the city. The Eden House, where Zachariah lived, was getting closer, and along with this, Dean’s worry grew stronger.

“You sure you don’t want to get inside?” he asked Cas for the tenth time already.

“No.”

Dean sighed. _So stubborn…So Winchester stubborn._

“Well okay, but don’t you leave the stage, all right?”

“I have no such intention, Dean.”

There were more and more people around. Men, women, even small children in funny little dresses were walking along the main street, their hands together. Dean noticed that they weren’t chaotically wandering around, but rather heading some certain way. Their expressions seemed excited and happy.

“Where do you think they’re going?”

Cas shook his head. “I have no idea.”

“Is it a holiday or something?” It was the 24th of October, more than a month to Thanksgiving.

“I don’t think so.”

The crowd continued to swell. Dean had to pull over the horses every moment as not to cause any accidental damage. They drove on a few more yards, and he had to stop.

“Something is wrong,” Cas said, scowling at the street flooded with people and stretching out his neck to see better.

_He’s looking for familiar faces._

But Cas was right: something was definitely wrong. The agitated crowd was now so dense that people were squeezing past each other, working their elbows and shoulders to move on. They began to hurry, as though afraid to miss something important, talking hastily on their way, their words merged together into an unrecognizable hum.

There was no chance for them to drive any further. Dean pulled the reins and guided the stage to a sidewalk.

“Let’s get rambling,” he said, jumping onto the ground and opening the door. “Sam, why don’t you go find out what’s up?”

Sam was ready, his guns loaded and his feet impatient to hit the road. Before Dean could think of any farewell, Sam’s tall frame dissolved in the crowd.

Dean locked the stage door and joined Cas who was peering out of the sidewalk into the main street. He was pale, every muscle on his face looked frozen with tension. He flinched as Dean touched his arm.

“Seen anything?”

“Nothing so far.”

They walked slowly along the street following the crowd, keeping the pace and trying to stay in the shadow of the walls. Dean was gazing around, checking side streets and back doors—with no certain purpose, merely out of habit. ‘Once you come to a town,’ John used to teach him, ‘first thing you do, you think about how you’re gonna blast off.’ Although most times Sam and Dean had been reasonably loyal to the law, this advice had repeatedly saved their lives.

Distracted, he did not notice that Cas had stopped and bumped into him.

“Hey, what the—”

“They are here,” Cas whispered, staring somewhere ahead. “Zachariah and others…All of them.”

He pointed out to a two-story building on the opposite side of the street. It was clearly newly built and freshly painted in formal light-gray, telling everyone about its governmental ownership. It had a sign above the ground floor windows, yet was mysteriously curtained.

At the entrance, on an improvised wooden platform, there stood about a dozen people in frock coats and top hats. Most were in their fifties and heavyset. They looked too important for this place. Their expressions were solemn and a little irritated, as those of officials invited to a funeral that was being delayed.

“Those stags?” Dean asked quietly. “And which one is Zach?”

“Whatever it is, they are taking part in it,” Cas mumbled, ignoring Dean’s question. “And it’s right about to start.” He frowned, then, as if catching himself, added, “Zachariah is on the right, looking like an owl.”

Dean snorted and glanced at the clean-shaven man with gray whiskers, dressed in black. He was eyeing the crowd in front of him silently, with a gracious half-smile on his thin lips. Dean did not like him.

“So what are we gonna do? Toss our hats up in the air?”

“Wait.”

It showed physically how strained Cas was. Dean realized why: the longer they were staying in this city, the higher was the possibility that he got recognized. Which he obviously wanted to avoid.

But at the moment, there wasn’t anything else they could do. Dean stepped aside, onto someone’s porch, and pulled Cas to him.

They stood amongst all the other people, waiting. Nothing was happening; the officials at the platform kept exchanging bored looks and glancing at their watches. People surrounding them stood obediently patient. Somewhere inside the building, a trumpet exhaled a few uncertain false sounds—a brass orchestra was having a last-minute rehearsal.

Dean looked around. Sam was still lost in the crowd and nowhere to be seen. Knowing no one here, Dean wasn’t afraid to be seen, but he never liked being in the middle of something he didn’t understand.

He caught a glance from an elderly lady standing a few feet from them, with a gaudy umbrella in her hand. She noticed him looking and smiled in an open and friendly manner that accidental strangers in a foreign land sometimes smile to each other.

She didn’t belong here too, Dean guessed. He smiled back and bowed.

“Madam?”

The lady blushed.

“I am sorry, gentlemen,” she said in a voice sounding at least twenty years younger than she looked, “I didn’t mean to interfere, but it’s getting so boring here that my eyes cannot resist wandering around…” She smiled again, a little apologetically, “Especially when they meet such a nice target.”

“You are more than welcome, ma’am,” Dean assured her politely. “We’re pretty bored too.” He reached out to touch his hat but recalled he didn’t have one and made a vague gesture instead. “I’m Dean Smith.”

“I am Mildred Baker.” She approached and made a hint of a curtsey. “And this handsome young man next to you?..”

“This is fa…This is Cas, a friend of mine.” There hadn’t been a chance for Dean yet to introduce Cas to anyone, so he said the first thing he could think of. Which, coincidentally, was the truth. “We’re traveling.”

“Oh, I see,” the woman nodded with a hint of regret, but then smiled even wider and went on, “So, you are traveling together…This is so sweet! So…romantic.” She giggled and immediately covered her mouth with her palm, “I didn’t say that.”

Cas raised his eyebrow, obviously going to ask one of his innocently stupid questions.  Dean elbowed him, but it was too late.

“What can be sweet about traveling?” Cas said, staring blankly at the lady.

She looked at him and suddenly laughed. “It depends on the company, my dear,” she said and winked at Dean, “Traveling is incredibly fascinating, isn’t it?”

Dean forced a smile, thinking desperately about how to get rid of this overly observant lady. She hinted at something he wasn’t yet ready to fully admit to himself, and least of all wanted to speak about.

His salvation came all of a sudden—Sam emerged from the crowd, scowling and beaming at the same time. Not aware of the lady, he stopped at the porch, cutting her off.

“It’s the telegraph, Dean,” he gasped, “they’re opening the Transcontinental Telegraph today. Now.”

His research got its confirmation the next moment. As Dean peered over Sam’s shoulder, the crowd hummed, the trumpets blew a heart-breaking groan, and someone pulled off the curtain from the sign. The block letters in black paint read ‘Telegraph Office’.

“Damn,” Dean grunted.

It wasn’t just another telegraph office. An ordinary thing for the East Coast and already quite common for cities in the West, the telegraph line had never crossed the whole country. Utah, the Mormon kingdom, felt comfortable enough in its secluded status and preserved it despite all external circumstances. Even sitting at one of the key American crossroads, having thousands of migrants passing through, it remained telegraph-free. Apparently, the war had changed that. A small building in the main street of Great Salt Lake City had just linked the U.S. Atlantic and Pacific coasts.

And it made things much more complicated.

“I am so excited!” Mildred Baker’s voice came in. “Aren’t you, gentlemen?”

Sam, Dean, and Cas exchanged looks. The excitement was probably the last thing each of them felt right now.

#

“Castiel? Cas?”

Dean was first to turn around. A lean man with a short silver beard was pursuing them, gazing intently at Cas. He had literally appeared out of nowhere—a moment before, the narrow sidewalk was totally empty. Dean stepped away from the stage and dropped his right hand. The gun on his thigh only needed one move to fire.

But Cas did not seem anxious. As he turned to the stranger, his expression softened, and a wry smile showed up at the corner of his mouth.

“Brother Ishim.”

The man called Ishim came closer, and after a moment of hesitation, they hugged each other. Both looked a little wary but clearly friendly. It didn’t escape Dean’s eye that Cas was more reluctant with his part of a hug.

“When did you come?” Ishim asked, finally stepping back. “And these clothes you’re wearing…Have you robbed a cowboy?”

Cas tilted his head aside uncertainly. “No.”

Ishim laughed. His laughter fit him perfectly—a dry sound, resembling a raven’s note.

“You haven’t changed, Castiel,” Ishim said, still smiling. “It’s been…how long?”

“Four years,” Cas said quietly. “I thought you remembered.”

“Oh, yes…Of course, I remember.” He flung his arms up and added in a sober voice, “I remember everything, brother.”

Through the whole brief conversation, Ishim never glanced at Sam and Dean, as if they weren’t there. He so obviously didn’t pay them attention that it seemed deliberate. He glared at Cas greedily and steadily, narrowing his eyes at every new detail. There undoubtedly was a lot to see, but for a mere old friend, it felt a little too investigative.

Dean cleared his throat.

“Hey, Mister,” he said. “You don’t mind us here, do you?”

Ishim shot him a bored look and raised his eyebrows at Cas. “Are they with you?”

Cas frowned, as though feeling guilty for the awkwardness of this entire scene.

“Brother Ishim, these are my friends,” Cas muttered. “Let me introduce Dean…Smith and Sam—”

“Wesson,” Sam said. “From Norwich, Connecticut.”

Ishim barely shared them a look. “Postal service, I assume? Well, it seems the good times for you are over. With this new telegraph,” he gestured at the main street behind him, “you will be jobless quite soon.”

“I’d see how you’re gonna send out your memoirs,” Dean responded, not very successful at hiding his feelings about all of this. His first vague distaste for Ishim was swiftly progressing to disgust. “Unless they are so short that you’ll afford paying a dollar a word.”

Ishim shrugged indifferently.

“I’m not writing memoirs.” He took a moment, then looked back at Cas. “Where are you staying, brother?”

“We haven’t arranged our refuge yet. Actually, we weren’t planning to stay, but now I believe we’ll have to.”

“There’s a great reception at the governor’s tonight,” Ishim said. “Whatever you have planned, it will have to wait until tomorrow.” He winced at the stage and added, “This doesn’t look like as a decent shelter for you, brother. The Salt Lake House would do much better.”

“Why can’t we stay with you, Ishim?” Cas asked, frowning.

Ishim shook his head in fake sadness. “I am sorry, brother, but my house presently is not suitable for any guests. I’m renovating something there, and with every pair of hands busy with the telegraph, I’m doing it alone. And it’s…Unfortunately, it’s taking quite long. Myself, I sleep on the floor. Sorry, Castiel.”

He was lying. Dean could see it as well as the daylight. It was pretty rude work, he thought with grim satisfaction, as Ishim didn’t even bother to make his voice sound truthful. Dean almost admired how nonchalantly he behaved. If it wasn’t for Cas, he would applaud loudly.

Cas looked uncertain—doubtful of what he’d been told or just hesitant to speak at all. At last he nodded and turned to Dean.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Salt Lake House was a safe place…six years ago.”

“It still is,” Ishim confirmed swiftly, “and reasonably priced. I’ll see you to it, brother.”

“I think I remember the way.”

Ishim smiled, “Don’t deprive me of that pleasure.”

Dean could not help wincing at this. If these two had been friends in the past, now it didn’t seem mutual.

“Cas will stay with us,” he said firmly. “In the stage. Inside the stage.”

Cas glanced up at him but said nothing.

“As you please, Castiel,” Ishim told him. “I’ll meet you there then. I guess, we still have a few things to talk about, don’t we?”

#

It was a very long night.

For Dean, it started when Cas had said he didn’t need a room. He’d said that he would be all right to sit and talk to Ishim for ‘as long as it takes’. He did not specify how long that would be, but his determined expression made it clearer than any words.

And indeed, they sat talking through the whole night, hidden in the darkest corner of the house drawing room. Their heads nearly touched each other, their voices were so low that no word slipped away for more than a couple feet.

Dean watched them from the staircase (peering out of his room at ridiculously punctual one-hour intervals.) He was genuinely bewildered which common topic could keep two people talking so long. He had never been that much of a big mouth, the longest he remembered himself talking was probably an hour, and by his own judgment, that was an extremely long conversation.

But Dean didn’t have any old friends. At one of his spy crawls, he wondered what it felt like for Cas to meet someone he hadn’t seen for six years. Maybe they had more history in common than Dean could imagine. Maybe, they even shared some kind of closer friendship…At the mere thought of this, he shuddered. Ishim, with his look of a runaway ferret and his darting eyes, could only raise interest in a corpse. And yet…And yet, Cas talked to him, and squinted his eyes, and even gave him one or two of his tiny smiles. The latter, undoubtedly, was beyond any understanding.

Dean knew he had to sleep—he absolutely had to. A big day was coming up, and he had to keep his head clear. He had very important and dangerous things to think about, and Ishim represented none of these. He even lay down and closed his eyes, but the next moment he had them wide open again, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Cas and about what all that really meant.

He was tossing in his bed till dawn, until Sam called him to get up. Swearing mutely, Dean surrendered. He felt tired and angry.

“Everything all right?” Sam asked him.

“Yeah…never mind.” Dean yawned and looked around. “Any ideas on the outfit for the hunters-in-need show?”

Sam grinned. “Modest but neat, I guess. Father Cas told me the Mormons don’t encourage diversity in clothing.”

“He didn’t really have to bother telling you that,” Dean mumbled, “his eternal coat could’ve saved him the job.”

Sam took a step closer and glared at him.

“Is something wrong, Dean? You’re not in the mood?”

“Of course I'm in the mood.”

“It’s just not like you to grumble like that,” Sam said with a shrug. “Not like the recent you.” Pretending not to notice Dean’s stare, Sam stretched his long arms and took his shirt from the chair. “Well, let’s get dressed and find father Cas.”

Dean took a moment to get a grip on himself. It suddenly helped to start dressing, and he savored the silence as he was putting on his shirt and vest.

“I bet he’s still right there,” he said in an easy voice sounding almost alien, “with Ishim…Hope they had enough time to study all their scriptures by heart.”

“So that's what this is about? Them sitting together?”

It actually was, but Dean would rather die than admit it.

“I don’t like him,” he said. “That Ishim, he is sort of…”

“Weird?” Sam suggested. He shoved his feet into his pants and grunted, pulling the belt up. “Yeah. He _is_ a bit strange, but…I think he’s harmless, Dean. And father Cas can stand up for himself, you know he can.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean,” Sam went on with suddenly annoying energy, “he looked all right with that. And if something goes wrong, we’ll help him, right?”

“Right.” This conversation felt like coming out naked in front of a crowd, but Dean didn’t know how to end it. If he had enough courage to respond, he would say a lot.

“Maybe he was trying to get some information for us? Ishim lives here and might know something…Don’t you think so?”

“Maybe.”

Sam became thoughtful. He took his guns and paused, staring at them as though he was hesitant to strap them to his belt.

“I think that father Cas doesn’t feel comfortable here,” he said. “I’ve noticed him hiding his face at the street, and he was practically terrified when Ishim called out for him.” Sam went silent for a moment, then said, “Did he tell you what had happened?”

“Not a word.”

“And you didn’t ask?”

Dean sighed. “Look, Sammy, he’s adult. If he wants to speak, he’ll speak. I ain’t gonna pull it out of him.” He would, but Sam didn’t need to know about that.

“Yeah, sure…Sure, you’re right.” Sam sat on his bed with a boot in his hand. The other boot was already in place, but Sam didn’t seem to notice his interrupted dressing. “Dean, I was thinking…The demon that cheats on soul-deals with the soldiers, we won’t let him get away with that?”

“We are working on a different case now.”

“I know. But I thought…maybe we could warn dad?”

“He won’t buy this,” Dean said firmly.

“Of course he won’t, but if he’s warned, he’d perhaps tell the others? I don’t know, I just…can’t stand how mean this is. We have to do something about it.”

It was way easier to say than to do.

“Well, I guess we can write dad…” Dean said, thinking aloud. “But I’m not sure he’s got my last letter, and it may well happen that this new one will reach him after the war.”

Sam shook his head. “I’m not talking about that. I’m not a man of letters, you know…But why don’t we try this telegraph thing?”

“And where exactly are you gonna telegraph? Mr. John Winchester, general delivery, U.S. Army? No, Sam, this won’t work…And I’ll tell you more. What we write will go public the very next moment. Operators, postmen…Whoever else is there in the line will read it.”

“Then we’ll write what no one but dad can understand.” Sam smiled. “Kind of…code words? Just mention a black dealer or something.”

Dean laughed. “That’s a hell of a mystery, Sammy. Think again.”

But Sam was surprisingly serious as if the idea had settled strongly in his mind. He could be very stubborn when he wanted something really bad.

“I’ll think,” Sam promised. “I trust the…um, technology.”

At this moment, Dean felt he was having a crisis of confidence strong enough to shutter any trust.

“We’ll see,” he brushed off. “Put on your second boot, smart boy, and let’s go.”

#

They found Cas already waiting for them downstairs. He was wearing the striped serape and glasses again, his top hat sat on the banister. In each hand, he was holding a mug of coffee.

“Good morning,” he greeted Sam and Dean as they descended. “I hope you slept well.”

Cas had bags under his eyes as big as a pigeon’s egg. He looked as exhausted as anyone who didn’t have any sleep for a long time.

“We’re fine,” Dean said, reaching out for one of the mugs.

Cas lifted it but did not let go. “Let this coffee bring you luck today,” he said in a solemn voice.

Sam thanked him and took his mug. Dean forced a fake smile.

“I’m deeply indebted for your care,” he quipped. “Isn’t Ishim joining us?”

Cas tilted his head, staring at Dean intensely. “You may not worry about Ishim,” he said. “I think he’ll be asleep for at least two hours.” He finally released the coffee mug to Dean and added, “I did my best to keep him away from you. Now you have to hurry.”

Dean froze. Sam swallowed his coffee and froze too.

“Wait…you did _what_?”

“I talked to him all night,” Cas said with a shrug so innocent that all Dean’s suspicions were gone in a second. “He was so…insistent that I thought I’d better keep him at a distance. At least until you meet Zachariah.” He looked up at Dean and probably noticed something he didn’t expect to find, for he added, “I told you, no one who knows me here would talk to me. Not a single person in the whole city would bother to even greet me. Ishim…I think he was up to something. I don’t know what exactly, but I’m positive that he stopped me on purpose. This could be dangerous for you…for all of us, so the danger had to be eliminated.”

Dean listened to him open-mouthed. He’d never felt so ashamed before.

“Uh…” he muttered. “Well…thanks, Cas. Thank you.”

Cas nodded slowly.

“You are welcome, Dean,” he said, shooting Dean his tiny smile, his face beaming. “We have to go now.”

Sam brought the stage out of the shed, and they got in. This time, Dean didn’t accept any excuses and made Cas sit inside, with the blinds drawn.

The Eden House sat at the far end of  Main Street. The house was grand—and no guesswork was needed to see that—and stood out among others as would a cruise ship among fishermen’s boats. It had a perfectly tiled roof, iron-clad window shutters, and flower boxes along the porch. Generally, it looked like a nice place to live in—that was if the owners of this house hadn’t been such assholes.

Dean stopped the stage nearby the entrance, and he and Sam got down. Dean tried to put weight onto his left leg and was relieved to find that it felt almost all right.

A woman in a white dress came out to the porch.

“Gentlemen?”

Sam stepped forward and bowed.

“We are here to meet Mr. Zachariah Adler.”

The woman gave him a bleak gaze.

“Do you have an appointment?”

Dean bowed too. “Not yet, ma’am,” he said with a smile that he hoped was charming enough. “Could you please help us get it?”

The woman’s expression didn’t change a bit. She nodded silently, and in a moment, she disappeared into the house.

“The Mormon hospitality,” Dean whispered through his teeth.

He was about to elaborate this even more, but the door opened wide, and the other woman, unrecognizably resembling the first one, gestured them to come in.

“Are they sisters?” Sam murmured. “Please tell me they are just sisters, Dean…”

Without glancing at him, Dean grinned. “They may be sisters, yeah…As well as wives.”

“Oh goodness.”

They were ushered through a long corridor with high ceiling, and then into the parlor decorated in purple and brown colors. A good half of it was occupied by a ponderous wooden table with a variety of silver ink pots and even a modern fountain pen. On top of a stack of paper sat a press—a marble figurine of an angel with spread wings.

Staring at all these small things, Dean could not help thinking that the owner of them didn’t look nearly as impressive. Here, sitting at his table in a deep curved armchair, Zachariah Adler was just a plumpish man in his forties. Despite a crooked smile on his lips, his short fingers intertwined in front of him in a meaningful expecting manner, and his unblinking owl eyes were gazing at the visitors in a clear attempt to make them as uncomfortable as possible.

Zachariah removed his smile in a well-trained moment.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, gentlemen?” he asked. He didn’t invite Sam and Dean to sit down and was looking at them in turn.

Beforehand, they had agreed that it would be Sam to make the speech. (Although Dean reserved the right to add comments whenever necessary.) So, after a set of formal introductions, Sam came straight to the matter.

“We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the case of need, sir,” he said in a high-society voice. “I’m afraid that we need your help. We are hunters…hunters of the supernatural. I’m sure you are well aware of what it means. Recently, we’ve been hunting creatures known as demons at a mining camp nearby the Colorado river. Unfortunately, we found out there are too many of them to handle in any usual way. And in addition to that, they have a very powerful leader, Crowley, otherwise known as Fergus Macleod. We have encountered him once, and barely survived.”

Hating himself, Dean made a little step forward so that Zachariah could see him limping. They had rehearsed it as well as everything else—desperate expressions and, in Sam’s case, pleading eyes.

Sam cleared his throat and went on, “We’ve been informed that you, Mr. Adler, might have in your possession a weapon that can be against Crowley and his demons. A weapon that could be very useful to us…The bullets with a demon trap.”

Zachariah blinked and smiled.

“Well, well well…” he muttered in a mocking voice. “Getting straight to the point, aren’t you?”

“We can imagine how busy you are,” Sam said respectfully.

Zachariah nodded. “Indeed, I am. But your awareness is brilliant, gentlemen. May I ask who told you that I have a weapon against demons?”

“Rumor has it,” Dean said.

“Brilliant,” Zachariah repeated and went silent again, as if he’d already given all his answers.

Sam hesitated a moment, then asked, “So…do you? Do you still have these bullets, Mr. Adler?”

There was a long pause before Zachariah spoke again. He obviously enjoyed studying Sam and Dean, like a scientist enjoys studying insects under a magnifying glass. He even crinkled his nose and chewed his lips as he kept darting his eyes from one to another. Looking back at him, Dean suddenly got a distinct feeling that they were wasting their time.

When Zachariah finally broke the silence, it came almost unexpectedly.

“Well, technically, I don’t own anything,” he said. “It might be brother Virgil who has what you need, but I’m not sure if we have any left…Brother Virgil is our weapons keeper.”

Dean groaned mutely, but Sam wasn’t giving up.

“And this brother Virgil, is he somewhere around?”

“Oh yes,” Zachariah smiled even wider, “he’s always around.” He opened a drawer and took out a silver bell. As he rang, he called at the closed door, “Brother Virgil?”

A dark-haired man in black, with a grim face similar to that of a mourner at the funeral, appeared in no time. He loped to Zachariah and gave him a bow.

“Brother.”

It seemed everybody here greeted each other in exactly the same way, Dean thought, with slight irritation. The only exception to this rule was Ishim, who had called Cas by name. _No wonder that Cas became suspicious._

“Brother,” Zachariah said in a gallant voice, “these young gentiles are wondering if we still have any bullets to be used against demons, but I’m in the realm of guesswork here.”

Virgil moved his stony stare to Sam and Dean. For a weapons keeper, his expression was more than appropriate—no one of sober mind would dare to have any dealings with him.

“We do,” he growled. “Why?”

“Well,” Zachariah gestured easily, “it appears they need them for some hunting purpose. A very special hunting purpose.”

Virgil nodded. His eyebrows furrowed menacingly, as he said, “Let them show the gun first.”

Sam and Dean exchanged glances, then looked at Zachariah.

“What is he talking about?”

“The gun, gentlemen. The .36 Colt with a certain Latin inscription. You have it, don’t you?”

 _So, this was it,_ Dean thought bitterly, _the end of their story._

“At the moment, we don’t,” Sam started. “The gun is very rare, and we just—“

“Don’t carry it around everywhere,” Dean finished for him. “It’s sort of dangerous these days? You never know what can happen on the road, we cannot risk losing it…So we hid it in a safe place.”

“Oh, you hid it,” Zachariah ran by. “How lovely.”

“We’ll pick it up on our way back.”

“Of course, of course…Virgil?”

Virgil tilted his head forward like a buffalo preparing to attack.

“No gun, no bullets,” he said.

“But I told you,” Sam protested, “we have it! I swear we do, what does it matter if we can’t present it right now?”

Virgil remained adamant. “Bullets are for the gun. You have no gun, you get no bullets.”

“Listen,” Dean said to Zachariah, “your keeper is doing an awesome job. Honestly, he’s great. But please, Mr. Adler, just for a second, please think of the people that are dying over there. People getting possessed by demons over there. People struggling to survive over there, having nothing but their bare hands. Just think what’s more important, all right? No rule is worth a human life.”

He regretted he had said all that the moment he cut off. Not a muscle moved on Zachariah’s round face, no eye-blink followed. Whatever he really cared for, definitely wasn’t a human life.

“I have a different opinion on that,” Zachariah pointed out flatly. “If the rules are violated, anarchy breaks out, and there is no weapon against that. One tiny weakness can ruin the entire civilization.”

Considering the two women they had met, Zachariah’s own weaknesses weren’t so tiny, Dean thought.

“I can’t speak for the whole civilization,” Dean forced out, “but I know that one mining camp at Eldorado Canyon can be saved. It can be saved with just one bloody bullet that you have. Zach…sir, we’re not asking for ourselves, you know that. We’re asking for good people.”

“We will pray for them,” Zachariah promised almost sincerely. He stood up and came out from behind the table. He was as tall as Dean, maybe even taller. With a wry smile, he said, “Well, gentlemen, if that's all, you may leave now.”

Dean barely suppressed an urge to throw an angel paper press at his balding head.

“One more thing, Zach. If we fail, and all these people die, it will be on your conscience. Forever.”

“I believe I will survive that,” Zachariah said and returned to his armchair.

Dean knew it was in vain to argue anymore. This man had less compassion than an angel on his table, and yet, Dean struggled to find something that would crack this marble mask with emotion—any of it. His fists clenched, his teeth grinding, Dean stared at Zachariah, looking for a reason to punch him in the face.

It was a knock at the door that interrupted him.

Virgil leaped to the door to open it. When Dean saw who was standing there, his heart dropped.

Ishim entered the room and crossed it at a crawling pace. As he stopped near Zachariah, his expression became crafty, his right forearm flinched, stretching out along his body. He bent down in the manner of a servant and started whispering into Zachariah’s ear.

Dean could guess what Ishim was saying word for word. He didn’t have to guess what would happen next. In fact, Dean didn’t care. All he could think about, was Cas—left alone in the stage, armed with just his baby-gun and a short silver blade.

_Is he still alive?_

Dean’s feet itched with an urge to rush out of here. His heart was pounding so loud that it echoed in his head.

Ishim went silent. Zachariah nodded, thinking over what he’d heard, then gazed up at the brothers.

“What I absolutely admire in amateurish hunters like you,” he said in a sweet voice, “is how brazenly you lie. You could have saved us all a lot of time, gentlemen, if you said who brought you here.”

Dean glared at him defiantly.

“What does it change?”

“Everything. It changes everything, Mr. Winchester.” Zachariah turned slightly to Ishim and said, “Thank you, brother. Your help was invaluable, and it will be duly rewarded.”

Ishim smiled in satisfaction and made another bow.

“We told you the truth, Mr. Adler,” Sam said, barely managing to control his voice. He was angry too, very angry and worried. “Everything about the demons was true.”

Zachariah waved dismissively. “I don’t care. Please leave now, both of you. My door is closed for anyone who is allied with Castiel—as well as any other door in this territory.” His mouth twisted in disgust as he added, “Forever.”


	15. Double Back

Something was wrong. It was written on both their faces. A short ride back to the Salt Lake House didn’t wipe it away. On the contrary, now that they were sitting in Sam and Dean’s room, it seemed to make things worse. Sam sat on his bed, pretending to clean his gun, Dean was circling around the room like a restless horse. Lost and confused, Castiel failed to meet anyone’s eye and kept studying his hands.  

He felt very strange. It seemed to him that he was still in the stage, and his skin kept sensing Dean’s hands, as if they were shaking him by the shoulders, leaving stinging marks at the spots where they had touched. Dean’s voice, screaming at him, still echoed in his ears at full blast. ‘Cas, you all right? Talk to me, man…Did he hurt you? I’ll kill the bastard if he did…’ Castiel vaguely remembered what he had answered—if he had answered at all—but Dean’s gaze, overly worried, stuck in his mind too bright to feel like a memory. Even now, in the safety of a locked room, Castiel felt overwhelmed by it.

Physically, he wasn’t hurt—what happened to him had nothing to do with Ishim’s appearance. He still had a nauseating headache, but fortunately, the voices were no longer heard. While they had been hitting his ears, the yelling, ruthlessly loud sounds were driving him insane, and he strongly believed that he was on the verge of his senses. It had probably been the worst thing he’d ever experienced. _Well, apart from hunger,_ he added to himself.

However, he made it out of the stage and all the way upstairs. He staggered only once, at the top of the staircase (coincidentally, right at the place from where Dean had occasionally been appearing the night before) and had to grip the banister. Dean, who was watching him walking with an eye of a vulture, noticed it immediately. As they entered the room, he made Castiel lie down and totally ignoring all protests, covered him with his serape. Pleased, but terribly awkward to be causing such trouble, Castiel surrendered.

“Cas?” Dean came up to him, pulled a chair and straddled it. He was so close that his disheveled head leaning towards Castiel was just two feet away. “Cas, you all right?”

The words were the same, but the tone became different to the one Castiel had heard in the stage. Now, it was cautious and gentle, without those terrifying notes of despair. Almost normal.

“I’m fine, Dean,” Castiel mumbled.

“It doesn’t look like that.”

Dean sighed and then, quite unexpectedly, reached out to touch Castiel’s shoulder. The gesture felt familiar; Castiel wasn’t sure, but, apparently, in the last half-hour, it happened more than once.

“I swear I’m fine.” Castiel took a deep breath and dared a glance at Dean. “I am sorry.”

Dean pursed his lips and looked away.

“We found you unconscious on the stage floor,” Sam said, placing his gun on his knees. “We thought…um, we thought that Ishim had killed you.”

Castiel already knew that Ishim had betrayed him—Dean had briefed him on the way back. This came as no surprise. Castiel would be rather surprised if Ishim didn’t do it. What he didn’t think of was that a possible connection between Ishim’s appearance and Castiel’s total inaction about it could be seen in a way that did him no credit.

“I am sorry,” he repeated in a dismal voice. “I don’t remember anything.”

Dean jerked up his head, a little annoyed. “This is your fifth sorry in a half-hour, Cas. Screw the apologies, or I won’t be responsible.” He rubbed his chin, then looked up again. “So…what happened to you?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Nothing at all?”

Castiel didn’t know what to tell him. He still had trouble thinking clearly; even for himself. He could not understand what it had been that had hit him so hard. He was nowhere close to explaining that. It occurred to him that perhaps he could make something up, but Dean’s expression was menacingly serious, and Sam’s (a few feet further) was no better.

“Nothing. I’m so—” Castiel caught himself right in time to avoid a dangerous word and went on, “…so disappointed to leave you unaware of what had happened, but I have nothing to say.”

Dean gave him another look, quite conspicuous this time.

“All right.” He slammed his knees with his hands and suddenly leaped up. “I need a drink.”

Sam scowled at him. “Now?”

“Urgently. Matter-of-life-and-death-ly.” Dean crossed the room and turned at the doorstep, “Don't let him do anything stupid.” And in less than a moment, he was gone with a loud drum of his boots on the staircase.

Sam followed him with an anxious gaze. He did not seem happy with the role he’d just been assigned, and Castiel wasn’t sure which of them felt more awkward.

“Dean is angry,” he said.

Sam shook his head. “I don’t think so. I know him…it’s not that. I think he was worried.”

“About the bullets?”

Sam shot him a brief glance. “About the bullets too.”

Castiel wasn’t sure what the point was. He sat up on his bed and looked at Sam, trying to find an answer in his furrowed eyebrows and cast down eyes. He had time to notice that Sam wasn’t as straightforward when speaking as Dean, but quite ironically, sometimes his hints told more of the truth than Dean’s curses.

Castiel could guess what Sam felt. Probably, the way their conversation with Zachariah had ended seemed abominable and, more importantly, it meant that any future negotiations were useless. Castiel knew that the brothers had been sent away, and although he hadn’t been told any details, he could imagine them well. Zachariah was a virtuosic manipulator, maybe the best of all (if, Castiel thought acidly, there could be superlative for such a feature), and he had obviously enjoyed this cat-and-mouse game. Sam and Dean did not know him so well, otherwise, they wouldn’t lay any hope on getting his help. Perhaps, there was one chance in a thousand that Zachariah would give his support, and this chance had been missed.

Somehow, it felt like Castiel’s fault too. If he weren’t there, maybe the chance that the brothers’ plan could have worked would be better. Or at least, there would be a chance. But with a hated outcast on board, the mission got truly impossible. Castiel did not know which reasons had been named, and what pleading words had been said, but he remembered that Zachariah had a remarkable skill to become deaf to any argument when he wasn’t interested. He couldn’t dream of a better occasion to demonstrate it.

“Ishim…What he did, could have been avoided if I took better care of it. I was so certain he wouldn’t show up there…I was mistaken.”

“It’s not your fault, father Cas.”

“It is, Sam. I wanted to help you, but it appears I bring more trouble than assistance.” He drew a little sigh. “I warned you I was a bad companion. You never listen to me.”

Sam shrugged his shoulder, “Sometimes, things just happen their way, don’t they?”

“Sam. You don’t understand.”

“I guess I do. And…honestly, I don’t think Zachariah would help us anyway. He made it clear enough. Ishim just made it shorter.”

This was something Dean did not have time to mention. Castiel frowned, not yet fully realizing what consequences it would have. Nothing good, he thought bitterly. There could be nothing good anymore.

“So Zachariah had refused to give you the bullets even before he learned about me?” he asked.

“He did,” Sam responded with a sad nod. “We were nearly begging him, but he just laughed in our faces.” He paused a moment. “So, like I said, this is definitely not your fault.”

There was no doubt about his sincerity, and for a moment, Castiel wondered how often Sam used his consolation skills. Probably, they met quite a lot of people in need for simple kind words—those who’d lost their loved ones, or survivors of trauma—and a tall, strong man speaking like that was calming enough to many. Unfortunately, Castiel wasn’t one of them. Especially when someone like Zachariah was on Dean’s tail.

“Thank you, Sam. I—I appreciate it,” he said as warmly as he could. “But if that’s the case…”

“What?”

Castiel took a moment to think (and to listen if Dean was coming, but he wasn’t), then he dragged his feet down from the bed and got up. This time he didn’t stagger.

“Nothing,” he said. “Sam, you and Dean have to leave this city as soon as possible.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “And you? Aren’t you going with us?”

The door squeaked as Dean pushed it with his foot. In his hand, he had a bottle of whiskey, already open (and judging by his mellowed expression, apparently even tasted).

“No one’s going anywhere before we drink,” he declared from the doorstep and pointed his finger at Castiel, “That means you too.”

Sam came up to the table and reached out for the tray with a few glasses.

“Dean, maybe father Cas shouldn’t drink.”

“Why not? Good whiskey never hurt anyone.”

He smiled, but Castiel sensed well-hidden tension behind this deliberate nonchalance.

“I’ll drink,” he said, coming closer. “I’m not dying.”

“Good to know,” Dean noted and swiftly grabbed the whiskey bottle, “so let’s drink to it.” He poured three glasses and took a good gulp first. He grunted, winced a little, then gave a filled glass to Castiel. His expression was unreadable, his head slightly bent down like it happened every time when he didn’t like what was happening. “Drink and drive the hell outta here. This city makes me sick.”

“Me too,” Sam agreed, sitting down and lifting his glass. “I’m pretty fed up with it.”

Dean took another gulp.

“So,” he said to no one in particular, “to make sure we’re all agreed. Do we have any other plan but to leave?”

Sam grinned and shook his head, “I wish I did. But yeah…we gotta leave. Well, unless they’d ask us to stay, which I doubt they would.”

“Don’t worry, Sammy, they’re not gonna do that. These damned brothers…Sorry, Cas, but I don’t know a better word for these assholes…If there were a prize for the worst hospitality ever, they’d break the bank.”

“And give it to that Virgil to keep afterward, just to be on the safe side,” Sam added. “It’s a pity, by the way, that they don’t gamble here.” He turned to Castiel, who had returned to his seat on the bed, “Or do they, father Cas?”

“No,” Castiel said. “Gambling is prohibited amongst the Mormons.”

“Big mistake,” Dean chuckled at him.

“It’s distracting.”

“From being arrogant bastards? You bet it is…But anyway, Sam’s right, this could’ve been an option. Not to mention that I’d be very happy to see Virgil’s ugly face as I call with a full house.” He placed his empty glass on the tray and rounded the table. “Damn, I should've blown the asshole’s brains out, maybe that would work better…Sledgehammer approach, you know?” He grinned bitterly and rubbed his palms as if they were itchy with the unreleased will to blow someone’s brains out. “‘Cause every time we try to play nice, we end up screwing up the case.”

“We also used to screw up without playing nice,” Sam protested.

“Yeah, but…” Dean halted for a moment, thinking hard. “Now that you said that…What if we raid the bloody mansion and just help ourselves to the bullets?”

The question wasn’t addressed to him directly, but Castiel felt it really wasn’t him to be watched for stupid actions. Before Sam could answer, he spoke up, “That won’t work, Dean.”

“Why not?”

“I suppose you’re aware that robbery is not a good thing, and the mansion is guarded like a state treasury, but that’s not even the point. Breaking into Zachariah’s house just doesn’t make sense, Dean, because you’ll never find the bullets there.”

“And you don’t know where they are hidden?”

“Not a clue.”

“Damn.” He looked at the ceiling as if trying to see a new solution magically written there. “Wait, isn’t there a spell that helps locate things?”

“There is,” Sam nodded grimly, “witches use it. But I don’t see any friendly witch around. And, Dean, honestly…witches? Are you serious? Why don’t you summon the Devil himself?”

“Can we do that?” Dean asked, pretending to pick up the idea, but then raised his hand, finally giving up. “All right, all right. We can’t.”

“And there is something else,” Sam noted. “No disguise anymore. They know our real names.”

That was another detail that had got missed. Now it completed the cheerless prospects all of them were facing.

“How did they know?” Castiel asked.

Sam coughed awkwardly.

“Maybe using the nicknames of Smith and Wesson from Norwich, Connecticut wasn’t such a good idea,” he said. “These folks are known better than I could imagine.”

 _It was a terrible idea,_ Castiel thought. _And Ishim is not such a fool. No wonder that he has seen the analogy._

“Oh, the gun-makers,” he said, “and probably as well-known as Oliver Winchester with his repeating rifles. I see.” And he sipped at his whiskey to refrain from saying something else he would definitely regret later.

Dean came back to the table and collapsed into the chair. For a few moments, he was staring into the void, then reached out for the bottle, gripped it by the neck and pressed to his lips.

Castiel watched him drink, trying to save the sight in his memory. It was strangely mesmerizing—Dean’s perfectly shaped chin stuck up, raised up high and frozen, his taut skin trembled in rhythm with the gulps as the liquid was moving down. It occurred to Castiel that he probably could watch Dean drinking forever. He wished the whiskey bottle never emptied.

But Dean took his last swallow and wiped his lips.

“So you’re saying there’s nothing left to be done?”

“At least not here,” Sam said firmly. “We might go back to see if Mr. Colt can make such trapping bullets with the silver he has.”

“That’s another five hundred miles.”

“Four hundred and fifty. And then all the way back to San Juan. About two weeks, I’d say?”

“Throw in a week of Colt’s work, Sam. And we don’t even know if he can do it.”

“I’m sure he can, that’s just carving the right sigil, isn’t it?”

“There gotta be some spell as well to make the thing work. So if he can do it and we’re lucky, we’ll be back by the end of November…Too late.”

“Yeah…Look, but what if we let him know first? By telegraph?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Sam, not again.”

“But why not to try? It’s one of the greatest technological inventions of our time, and you can’t just ignore that.”

“I’d rather ask Bobby to come over to help…”

They went on discussing how to put their plan into motion, but Castiel stopped listening. He watched the brothers talking edgily, their eyes bright with hope and whiskey, and had his own thoughts wandering far away. He tried to figure out how to keep his friends safe.

Presentiment of a disaster was filling him at the speed of water soaking a fallen hat. Wherever Sam and Dean headed off to, they would be a dangerously easy target. Traced by Zachariah’s ‘Angels’, pictured on the fake ‘Wanted’ placards, and their stage being so remarkable, how far would they get? Even with all their weapons and invisible protection, they wouldn’t fight their way free. The night before, Ishim had mentioned that their garrison still existed, and moreover had doubled in size. This wasn’t a horde of Indians or drunk outlaws, this was a perfectly organized fighting unit, exceptionally well-trained and armed. And there was no evidence that Sam and Dean had ever encountered an enemy like that.

Perhaps, Castiel reasoned to himself, they would manage it better if they double-teamed. They were brothers, knowing each other from birth, they had fought back to back over the years. Perhaps they would be safer alone, without the Mormon fugitive on board. Castiel had no illusions about Zachariah’s mercy: now that everyone knew their ex-brother was alive, he wouldn’t be allowed to simply walk away.

But on the other hand, if Castiel stayed in Salt Lake City (which most likely would result in him being killed very soon), he would never have a chance to help Sam and Dean. After all, he still had his special power and, quite surprisingly, it still appeared to work. It had helped them once, banishing the Indians, so probably, it could help them again—even just a little.

Inadvertently, he wondered from where it had come to him. He didn’t lie when he had said he didn’t remember it, but through his lifetime, he asked himself this question repeatedly. Because actually, apart from what Sam and Dean had seen, there used to be other instances when Castiel experienced his weird abilities working.

He had sensed the moment the hellhounds attacked Dean to within a heartbeat. He’d nearly seen the whole scene as if he was no more than a few feet away. It just had flashed up in his mind with a horrifying clarity. And later, as he’d ridden into the clearing, he’d distinguished the ugly hound silhouettes well enough, obviously much clearer than Dean. He’d never made himself admit it, though, for fear that he’d be considered entirely crazy, but to himself, he knew the truth.

There had been other oddities. His non-existent childhood memories, his unusual resistance to heat and lack of water, his tolerance to pain, his healing gift…Even with his limited education, he was quite clear on the fact that no herb or honey could work wonders.

And of course, there were those voices. At first, they came in soft muffled sounds, too distant and low to be recognizable. He barely heard what they were saying, but as the voices became louder, in the mixture of sounds he distinctly caught them saying his name. It wasn’t a calling or guidance—these he could believe to be true—but rather a casual conversation, only too loud for a human ear. And they mentioned Castiel’s name more than once.

Everything about it was very strange. But, he asked himself, was it also dangerous? Or, to speak plainly, was his presence more dangerous for Sam and Dean than Zachariah’s people?

_Probably, it was._

Castiel stared into his empty glass, hoping his face wouldn’t reveal how bad he felt about the decision he had just made. The thought of letting Sam and Dean go alone, seeing Dean off knowing they would hardly ever meet again, was unbearable. The only thing worse was the need to say that all to Dean.

He looked up in order to catch a moment in which he could put his word. To his surprise, neither Sam nor Dean were speaking anymore; they both sat quietly, half-turned to his bed, and eyed him with wary and concerned expressions.

“What’s the matter?” Castiel asked, annoyed by these studying gazes.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

“Isn’t there something you wanna tell us?”

Castiel tilted his head aside, uncertain what he was expected to say.

“Like,” Dean went on in a flat voice, “what happened in Vegas? And why the hell Zachariah hates you so much? ‘Cause something tells me that we deserve to know.”

#

There was no demand in his voice. Dean was asking—as only close friends could ask each other. And he was right—they deserved to know.

Which absolutely didn’t mean that Castiel wanted to tell them anything.

He was a little scared to speak about his past. He didn’t feel like bringing it up with the best people he had ever known. Over those days they’d spent together, Sam and Dean had already formed some initial impression about him, and apparently, it was not so bad (at least, on Dean’s side). What he could tell them now would barely change it, and still, at the back of his mind, Castiel was hesitant. He valued Sam and Dean’s friendship too much to risk losing it.

He just wasn’t prepared. Only a moment before, he was occupied with a totally different matter. He was about to discuss the future, not the past. But he knew it was too late to change the subject now.

Not when he was being looked at with these two pairs of hopeful, trusting eyes.

Castiel glanced down, where Dean’s striped serape was piling on the bed beside him and brushed it with his fingers. Maybe, he thought suddenly, after this conversation, there wouldn’t be any question for him over what to do.

This delegated decision made Castiel feel better. He got up and slowly crossed the room. He stopped by the window and looked out, but saw nothing but the blue sky. It was too early for the stars.

He felt a familiar hand on his shoulder and turned around. Dean stood next to him, holding a filled glass. As their eyes met, Dean gave him a little smile.

“Cas,” he said quietly, “whatever it is…just tell us, all right?”

Strangely, these awkward words (or maybe the smile) helped. Castiel took the glass from Dean’s hand and leaned with his back against the wall by the window.

“Have either of you heard about Destroying Angels?” he asked.

Sam and Dean exchanged blank stares.

“The Mormon killers? I thought it was just a myth,” Sam said, “kind of what they like to tell in saloons…Scary stories?”

“It’s not a myth or a scary story, Sam. Destroying Angels are real. I was one of them.” At these words, Dean flinched slightly and looked away. Castiel touched his elbow and said, “Take your seat. It will be a long story.”

“I’m fine here,” Dean protested.

“Please, Dean.”

Finally, Dean obeyed and returned to the table. He poured himself another glass but didn’t start to drink.

Watching him, Castiel took a moment to collect his thoughts. When he went on, his voice was almost steady.

“Destroying Angels is the common name for the Mormon fighting units. There used to be a few of them, formerly commanded by Zachariah. We had twelve brothers and sisters in my unit, including myself.”

“Wait,” Dean interrupted him, “so you’re saying all of them were your family?”

“Actually, I’m not sure…We were very different, so I don’t think we were blood relatives. But we were raised together and always called each other brothers and sisters.” He paused a little. “Neither of us remembered any other parents or families than those we had at the commune. Probably, we had been orphaned. That’s why we have such unusual names, by the way.”

“And you don’t know what happened to your real family?”

“I don’t. But it wasn’t so bad, eventually…We had shelter and good care, and when we grew older, we were given the best military training one could imagine.”

“Like what, West Point?”

“I had no chance to compare my combat skills to those of West Point officers, Dean. But I suppose mine are no worse.” This was followed by two nods—obviously, Sam and Dean recalled the encounter with Pah-Ute Indians. “Anyway. We were trained as soldiers, mute and faithful, as no army ever had.”

“But what for?” Sam asked.

“To kill, of course,” Castiel tried to grin, but his lips hardly made it. “We were raised like warriors. The warriors of the Lord, as they called it, but in fact, it was more like assassins, ruthless and irrevocably obedient. We barely realized it, though. When you are taught something since you are very young, you give up reflecting quite soon. It becomes a part of you, your initial temper adjusts to it, and after years of such a life, it feels as natural as any other.” He took a sip of his whiskey. It felt bitterly hot on his tongue, and he winced a little. “Well, as I was saying, we had a few Angel units. Mine was mainly responsible for external affairs.”

“That sounds like big politics.”

Castiel nodded. “It’s more than a sound, Dean. Our unit was in charge of external invasions and served to protect the commune from any danger. At least, that’s what we were being told.”

Dean squinted his eyes, starting to get the point.

“But that wasn’t the truth, right?”

“That wasn’t entire truth. The Mormons have always been highly secluded from the outer world, and from within the commune things sometimes seem different than what they actually are. This…I tend to think this is what inevitably happens to anyone who is preoccupied with himself—he starts to believe that the whole world has the same obsession. Fortunately, it doesn’t, but it took me years to understand that.”

Hoping that his listeners would guess the rest, Castiel fell silent.

Sam cleared his throat. “Father Cas…” It felt a little funny that he was still using this salutation, but Castiel was pleased to hear it more than ever. “Father Cas, what exactly was your unit doing?”

“At first, our service was limited to smaller missions. As you might know, the Mormons have always been persecuted for their faith, and despite moving from Iowa to Utah, a deliberate location outside American jurisdiction, the hatred they experienced never ended. Commune members were followed and assaulted, some got killed. Our unit was to trail the offenders and commit the act of vengeance.”

“Eye for an eye?” Sam looked surprised. “I thought…uh, the Mormon faith is all about gracious forgiveness and all that?”

“Not exactly. When it comes to revenge, the Mormons demonstrate no more mercy than cavemen, and always carry out the sentence.” Castiel did not elaborate on the details—Sam and Dean’s expressions told him that they understood what had been meant by the ‘sentence’.

“No peace for the wicked,” Dean muttered after a silence. “That’s a hell of a job you had to do, Cas.”

Castiel looked him in the eye but saw there nothing but grief.

“I did not choose it, Dean,” he said in a low voice. “And I never enjoyed it.”

Sam shifted in his chair and scratched his nape.

“You said—at first. So did it…change over time?”

“Yes, Sam. As you probably noticed, Salt Lake City sits at a very convenient crossroads. All the migrants from Iowa and Missouri pass it through, stop to replenish their supplies, sometimes spend a few days to rest prior to the hardest part of their journey. The city is large enough to accommodate migrant trains of any headcount. And of any prosperity.”

“And?”

Castiel looked into his glass. “You have seen Zachariah’s house, haven’t you? He always valued personal comfort. You wouldn’t see him in the field or at the factory, dressed in a plain shirt, and even fair trade could not satisfy him. For Zachariah, all this was too slow and too burdensome. Day by day, he was watching the trains passing by his windows, carrying valuables and various goods to the new lands, and he kept thinking how little was landing in the city. And one fine day, it occurred to him that the migrants could do without their possessions.”

“He was robbing them,” Dean breathed out. “What a bastard…”

Castiel shook his head, “People like Zachariah never do a nasty job with their own hands…He allied with the Pah-Ute Indians.”

“How’s that?”

“The game he played out was actually very simple. Once the train left the city, the Indians pursued it and pretended to attack. They fired into the air, but with all their yelling and warpaint on, they looked very convincing. And then, while the migrants were still scared and frustrated, a group of Zachariah’s Angels appeared, all well-armed and friendly to their fellow white men. They offered to settle a bargain with these awful, cruel Indians which they claimed to be knowing. Generally, the migrants agreed, so in a little while, the Angels came back with the outcome of the negotiations they had allegedly performed. The terms were always the same: the migrants were free to go, but they had to leave all their valuables. This meant a lot of suffering, probably hunger and even death, but to save their families from immediate danger, the migrants accepted the deal. I believe,” Castiel looked up at Sam and Dean, “you understand what happened next.”

Dean nodded. “Everything went to that asshole.”

“Most of it. The Indians received their share too, of course.”

“And nobody stopped him? Nobody gave a damn?”

In the past, Castiel had asked himself this question more times than he could remember. How could it go so far and why nobody cared? Now he knew the answer, but for the sake of a few good memories he still had kept from the past, he didn’t want to share it.

“It took…a certain amount of time,” he said evasively. “But for about a year, Zachariah’s little business was prospering. All parties seemed to be content with it: the Indians had their money, the Angels trusted they were doing the right thing…I forgot to mention; every time before such a mission, Zachariah had…revelations. He told us that the Heaven perceived the migrants to be cursed and commanded us to teach them a lesson of humility. And the Angels…were trained to execute their orders with full obedience.”

Sam was rolling around his glass with his fingers, Dean was sitting still, his ankles crossed, hands dropped down onto his thighs. As Castiel stopped speaking, neither of them said a word.

This silence felt somewhat supportive, and Castiel was grateful for it. He had never told his story to anyone and never thought he would have to. He gazed at his glass of whiskey, still half-full, and put it away. He didn’t want to drink it anymore.

“Eventually,” he went on with his best attempt at a steady voice, “the commune leaders became aware of what was going on in their elite garrison. To avoid a public scandal, they sent Zachariah to a new settlement in Las Vegas Springs.”

“And you had to follow him?” Sam asked with a frown.

“It was either that or getting back to avenging missions. Departure seemed more appealing…I thought it would be a new life for us, a peaceful, fulfilling life for the good of local people, and for the first year, it was very close to that. So close that I nearly forgot our garrison had never been dismissed.” As Castiel was approaching the end of the story, the words were having trouble coming together. “Some of us hoped that Zachariah would stop his illegal activity, but his own plans were quite the opposite. Being so far from any authority, having no fear and even less conscience, he felt free of scrutiny and went on. Pretty soon after the fort had been built, he changed our order from protection to attack.”

“The same way?”

“Yes, Dean, precisely the same. But…the Lord works in mysterious ways. In Vegas, Zachariah faced the problem he’d never thought about. The local Indians didn’t seem happy to cooperate as wholeheartedly as he had expected. They demanded larger shares of the profit and, more importantly, were violent and hardly manageable. Having got the lead on the migrant train, instead of playing out negotiations, they just attacked it and took what they wanted. Zachariah abided that for a while, but when the Pah-Utes started killing people…cold-bloodedly, even women and children…he gave up. I am sure he wasn’t sorry about the migrants, he only cared for their goods he had missed…Then he made up a new plan. He parted company with the Indians and commanded us to play both roles. We had to dress as Indians and paint our faces.”

Dean blinked in disbelief, “You gotta be kidding…How could anyone mix you up with an Indian?”

Castiel sighed. “From a distance of fifty yards…uh…even you, Dean…and you, Sam, with your good sight, could get mistaken…Very easily.” His voice broke, and he took a moment to collect himself. The recalled memories were so vivid that his hands flinched, gripping the invisible weapon, and he hastily crossed his arms on his chest. “I am sorry that it’s taking so long,” he muttered apologetically, “it’s time to finish this stupid confession…So when we got this new order, the three of us…resented it. Secretly, we agreed to warn the migrants and destroy Zachariah’s plan. It could have worked, as we volunteered to lead the group and were the first to face the migrants…We only had to cry out something like ‘Run!’ and stop the other brothers…It wasn’t an ideal plan, but it could have worked.”

Castiel cut off to take a breath, but before he could continue, Dean rose from his chair and approached him. He didn’t say anything and barely looked up, he just stopped a few inches from Castiel and stayed there, leaning his back onto the wall like an ancient telamon. Castiel could sense his hot breath, coming out in tense, angry puffs.

Castiel felt he had come to the end of himself. As bad as the voices in his head had been that morning, his own voice seemed to sound even worse.

“Unfortunately, we failed,” he said, trying to keep it short—as was the instant that had split his life into ‘before’ and ‘after’. “The train we wanted to save was from Missouri, and it had a few dozen strong young men, courageous and fearless. As we rode to the train and began to shout, the migrants opened fire. Probably they simply didn’t recognize our words, or maybe they had encountered Indians before…We never learned the truth. They fired from their wagons, discreetly. Four Angels were killed at once, three got wounded. The unit felt abashed, and the brothers loyal to Zachariah turned their horses back. I don’t remember very clearly what happened next, I only knew that my brothers and my sister were killed.”

“But the innocent people were saved?” Sam spoke up.

“They were,” Castiel nodded, “but four Angels were dead. Among them, there were the people I knew and trusted, people who had risked their lives to support me…Benjamin was one of my best friends, and Anna…she was like a blood sister to me. This was a high price I had paid.”

The room got very quiet. Suddenly, Castiel remembered that morning before their ‘Indian’ raid—he and Anna were alone in the house, and it was just as quiet. ‘Beyond this door,’ she had told him then, ‘there is no way back, Castiel. If you have doubts, in fact, it means that you have no doubts. We have made a decision, and we will fight for it. We may even die for it, but we’ll die with a light heart. Now do what you have to do, and may the Lord help you.’ Later, lying on a scorched desert land with a bullet in his side and staring at Anna’s dead body a yard away, Castiel thought that if the Lord had really intended to help them, He didn’t hurry to do so.

Dean lifted his head. His lips twitched as if he was going to say something, but instead, he just swallowed with effort and drew a sigh.

“Cas…” he whispered finally and fell silent again.

“I don’t need your pity,” Castiel said harshly. “It’s…it’s humiliating. I only told you what you’d believed you wanted to know. All that happened five years ago, do you think there is anything you can tell me that I haven’t told myself already?”

The words came out cruel enough to make Dean drop his head bitterly, and Castiel regretted saying them.

“Well, this is mostly it,” he muttered, returning to his story (and skipping the next two months when he had been struggling for his life—which he would probably never have survived without Hanna’s help). “I was the only survivor of those who…rebelled. Zachariah proclaimed me a traitor and banished forever from the Mormon commune. He didn’t need…fallen angels.”

As his last words hung in the air, something strange began to happen. With no wind in the room, the whiskey glasses commenced to shake and bounce on the table. The window shivered in its frame as if about to jump out. The plaster on the ceiling burst into a web of cracks and a few pieces of it fell down.

“What the hell is going on?” Dean asked into the void.

He barely had time to raise his elbow to cover his face from a splutter of broken window glass. The whiskey glasses shuttered too, sending shards raining across the table and onto Sam’s lap.

Some vague, instinctive knowledge of what was about to happen appeared from nowhere and Castiel rushed to the bedside table for his silver blade.

“Close your eyes!” he screamed at Sam and Dean, “Now! Close your eyes!”

A shuffling sound rolled over the outside of the room, and then the light came in—a blinding white and blue light beaming through the seams in the wooden walls. It stayed there for a moment and sneaked into the room, touched the floor and the ceiling, as though checking if they were safe and revealing every bug hole. And then, within a second, it was gone.

Spilled whiskey kept dripping onto the floor, blistering on the carpet of shards. They were crunching beneath Castiel’s feet too, but that wasn’t the reason why he froze still. He was gazing at the door.

And the man standing there in a transparent cloud of swirling dust was the last one Castiel would expect to see.

“Balthazar.”

“Hello, Cas.” Balthazar smiled and spread out his arms, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s getting cold outside.”


	16. The Angel of the Odd

Too curious to keep his eyes shut, Dean peeped at their new visitor. Older than all of them, dressed in a ridiculously short frock coat and unbuttoned shirt without a tie, a man called Balthazar looked like a dismissed gigolo. He kept smiling at Cas in a friendly but slightly condescending manner and paid so little attention to everything around him (including Sam and Dean) that it made one wonder if he had ever noticed company. If it weren’t for his dashing appearance, Dean would think that this was just another crazy Mormon.

However, Cas seemed to know him. He tucked away his silver blade and squinted his eyes.

“Outside?” he repeated. “Where?”

“Everywhere,” Balthazar said, waving off vaguely. “I was trying to reach you all morning, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“I did not hear you.”

“I wasn’t calling in my full voice.” He shivered and shrugged his shoulder. “I hope that now when you’re done with your storytelling, you’ll spare me a minute?”

“You were eavesdropping,” Cas said, not really surprised.

“Sure I was. I couldn’t resist the temptation…And I was dying to find out why you had left. I was missing you. In fact…I never thought to find you alive. But then I saw your very flattering portrait on a ‘Wanted’ placard in Connecticut, and decided to come over.”

Cas didn’t answer. He kept staring at Balthazar, his head bent suspiciously, his silver blade still locked in his hand.

_If he is happy to see his old associate, he does a perfect job of not showing it._

Keeping his hand at the grip of his gun, Dean made a step forward.

“Hey,” he said, “how did you enter here?”

Balthazar snorted.

“Angels do not enter, Dean,” he said instructively. “They make their appearance, if you must know.”

Dean felt his ears had just played a very bad trick on him.

“The—who? Who did you say you are?!”

Sam jumped up too and joined Dean. Now the two of them were surrounding Cas in the middle of the room, all alert and ready for whatever was to happen.

“What are you?”

Balthazar tilted his head back and laughed cheerfully at their bewildered faces.

“An angel,” he repeated, “or a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, if it makes things easier for you. Don't I look like one?”

“Actually, you don’t,” Sam said cautiously.

Dean eyed Balthazar, thinking the same thing. He had never believed that angels were real. There were no doubts about other creatures they used to hunt—demons, witches, ghosts and so on—both he and Sam saw them more than once and could be sure they existed (although he’d definitely prefer that they didn’t.) But not the angels. Everything about them, even the word itself, seemed too surreal, too distant to be true. To Dean, it felt like some kind of forbidden territory he never dreamed of exploring. And if he was completely honest, it felt a little terrifying.

He shot Balthazar another studying gaze, trying to imagine him with wings and a halo. _No way,_ Dean told himself in a moment, _just no bloody way_.  

“Uh…nothing personal, but you’ve got the wrong door,” he said. “There ain’t no children here to believe in your fairy-tales.”

Balthazar rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, don’t make me sink to stupid levels of proof like showing you my wings. It’s too impressive for the eye of you humans...” He raised his eyebrow at Dean, “You really don’t believe me, stupid man? All right.” He looked down and held his gaze at Dean’s side and left leg. “Does it still hurt? I guess it should, the hellhounds bites heal slowly, even with someone’s kind assistance…Let me see what I can do here.”

He reached out and before Dean could stop him, pressed his index and middle fingers to Dean’s forehead. At first, nothing was happening, but then, within an instant, all the pain of the wounds was gone—as if it had never been there. Inadvertently, Dean touched his side. As much as he could feel through the fabric of his shirt, beneath his palm, there was just smooth, healthy skin.

“How…how the hell did you do that?” Dean said, completely lost.

“You are welcome,” Balthazar smiled and turned to Cas, “You were not joining this chicken choir…Of course, you weren’t. You guessed already, my little brother, didn't you?"

Cas gave him a quiet nod.

“No, wait a minute, y’all,” Dean put in. “Cas? What he’s saying…does it mean…like, angels are real?!”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas said. His voice was so tense that Dean hardly recognized it.

“And he really has his wings and everything? Harp and halo? And he can...fly?”

Cas was barely looking up.

“I have doubts about a harp,” he muttered. “But the rest…The rest I believe to be correct.”

“That faded clown?”

“This is his human…form. The one I used to know.” At this, Cas lifted his hands and squeezed his temples. “Balthazar, but I don’t understand…”

Balthazar stepped towards him. “Things have changed, Cas. While you were hanging around making new friends, your old ones got promoted. I'm sorry about the whiskey, by the way.”

Everything he was saying sounded like a joke funny to no one but the teller. For a brief moment, it occurred to Dean that the whole sarcasm act was only there to hide jealousy. _I have an actual angel standing next to me, and I don’t give a damn. This is verging into mania._

Unaware of Dean’s thoughts and not bothered by everyone’s confusion, Balthazar spared them another mysterious smile and suddenly dived into his inner breast pocket.

“I don’t have much time,” he excused himself, rummaging through the layers of cloth, “but I think I might have something that you need…Where is it…Oh, Holy Heaven, could I have lost it? That would be so very unfortunate…I had to fly over to Paris to get it, you know? America is such a mess these days that a decent angel has very big trouble hiding his treasures…I had to bury it in the crypt of Saint Chapelle.” His hand made another quick movement inside the frock coat, and Balthazar chuckled contently, “Enfin, voilà! There it is.”

On his palm, in its dull luster, sat a demon-trapping bullet.

Sam, Dean, and Cas froze in silent surprise.

Balthazar paused a moment, admiring the effect.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. “I picked the best one for you. Others had scratches.”

“Is this the bullet you told us about, father Cas?” Sam asked.

“I think so, yes.”

Dean leaned forward to take a closer look. The bullet was a usual .36 Colt one, just with a little demon trap carved neatly into its body.

“How could Zachariah give it to you, Balthazar?” Cas said, squinting his eyes. “Or…Did you steal it?”

Balthazar scoffed. “Oh, I’m afraid I did. It was such a mess here when Zachariah came back! You can’t imagine, Cas. With all these investigations and discussions in place, the armory had been their last concern. I was incredibly lucky to save at least something.”

“Save,” Dean repeated mockingly. “Like a cat saves milk?”

“You don’t get the idea, boys,” Balthazar sighed. “Safe bind, safe find, that’s what I say. Some things are just better to be kept away for everyone’s safety.” He tossed up the bullet on his palm. “If you don't want it, I don't insist.”

Dean was the first to react. He rushed ahead and reached out to grab the bullet from Balthazar’s hand—and only met Balthazar’s clenched fist.

“Well, of course,” he snapped, “you’re not gonna just give it away like that…That’d be no profit, and you angels are damned practical folks, right?”

Still speaking, he jerked his head toward Sam, giving a mute command they both knew. He didn’t look back, but a light movement of the air told him that Sam had got the message.

They burst into action at once and nearly jumped over to where Balthazar was standing. Due to his height, Sam was an inch earlier, but Dean followed him a split second later. He was already squeezing the hem of Balthazar’s coat when he felt that he could not move along anymore. It seemed that he’d hit an invisible barrier, thick and solid as the Chinese Wall. Dean tried again—and again the few inches between him and Balthazar remained impassable.

Next to him, Sam was leaning onto the void, gasping with the same vain effort.

“Dean, I can’t…How’s he doing that?..”

Dean looked up. Balthazar was still there, keeping the same casual attitude. He only had his right arm outstretched—palm up, fingers slightly apart—towards Dean and Sam. The gesture felt painfully familiar.

_I’ve seen it before._

A belated thought struck Dean like a thunderbolt. Not turning back, he asked, “Cas, that’s how you stopped the Indians? You have the same power, right?”

There was silence, and then he heard a quiet ‘yes’.

Balthazar smiled again, “But of course he does, isn’t it obvious? It’s customary for fallen angels to keep some residual power…Like this one.”

Dean choked up, “Fallen—what?”

“Angels,” Balthazar repeated with unexpected patience. “Like Cas and me. Zachariah has the brain of Machiavelli but a very poor imagination. He was smart enough to tame his fellow fallen angels and clean their memories, but he totally messed up the naming. Destroying Angels! Could make a title for third-rate novel…” He dropped his arm and squeezed between Sam and Dean to approach Cas. When he spoke again, his voice was low and sad, “You still don’t remember anything, little brother, do you?”

“I don’t understand what you are talking about, Balthazar.”

“You will very soon.” Balthazar rounded him and came up to the table. “I was as ignorant as you are. But then, there was this moment…just one little moment that changed everything. You know, like when someone opens Pandora’s box, changing the history forever…So did I as I got to Zachariah’s treasury.”

Cas furrowed his eyebrows, thinking. “You found something else.”

Balthazar waved his hand, “I wasn’t looking for it, I swear. That was a pure coincidence, Cas, and maybe a little bit of my natural curiosity. As I was ensuring the safety of these bullets, I came across a box full of vials with something glowing white-blue. I had no idea what these were, but they looked so very attractive…As if they wanted to be taken. Well, long story short, I took a closer look and can you imagine my surprise when I found my name written on one of them!”

“These vials were…labeled?” Cas asked. He kept looking away, but for a moment, his unreadable expression gained a note of interest.

Balthazar nodded. “All of them. And it had our names, Castiel. Obviously, Zachariah didn’t bother to change them as he’d recruited fallen angels to his service, so the vials kept their original names. Uriel, Joshua, Benjamin, Akobel, Anna…And you, Castiel.”

Cas winced as if he had been hit. His gaze darted around, brushing Sam and Dean’s bemused faces, the hotel room riddled with broken glass, then stopped at himself. He looked at his muddy boots, down-at-heel, at his old pants and plain black shirt. Then he raised his hand and touched his neck, where his clerical collar used to be. Only then, with a clear effort, he forced himself to face Balthazar.

“I—I was an angel?”

“Yes.”

“And…Zachariah knew that?”

“Of course, he did.” Balthazar shrugged. “He is an angel himself, and his real name is Zachriel, the lord of the memories…Very skilled at that. He erased our memories so very thoroughly that none of us would have doubts. These vials I found had our grace—the angel grace. That’s what makes an angel an angel, empowers him, allows him to fly…Angel grace is an incredibly valuable thing, by the way, almost as much a human soul.” He exhaled a little sigh, as though regretting his missed profit. “I learned all that later, as you can guess.”

Cas still looked bewildered.

“And you restored your grace? How did you do that?”

“I only opened the vial, and it just came into me…by itself. It looked like a blue spurt of flame leaking into my throat. It was a bit painful, I have to admit, my whole body was shaking and burning hot. I even thought it was some kind of poison…But then it was gone. And…and I was back to myself and free.” He stopped talking to check the contents of his breast pocket again. When he pulled his hand out, it had a small blue vial. “I could not resist taking this one as well. This is yours, Cas.”

He placed the vial carefully onto the table. Next to it, he put the demon-trapping bullet. Before anyone could say a word, Balthazar turned around.

“Now, here’s the deal. These cowboys get this bullet, and you, Cas, leave with me. I think you’ll agree that this is a very generous offer.”

Cas gave him a cautious squinty look.

“With you? Where?”

Balthazar flung his arms up. “Everywhere! There are no limits for us anymore, we can go anywhere in the universe. Endless freedom! Rise to the stars, dive to the depths of the sea, go back in time or jump to the future. You can’t imagine what this doomed little world will be like two hundred years from now! Quite a difference, I assure you. Or we may explore more of the present, just for a start…Gorgeous Europe, mysterious Asia, even faraway Australia…Have you ever seen a platypus, Castiel? I have, and my world will never be the same.”

Cas didn’t seem to notice the joke. The more Balthazar was telling him, the deeper Cas was escaping into his thoughts, frowning and anxiously biting his dry lips.

Dean could not stand it anymore.

“No America on the way?” he asked. “What, it’s not good enough for folks like you?”

“America?” Balthazar raised his eyebrows. “America with its stupid Civil War? No, thanks. This lot will last at least a few years more, and we’ve lost too much time already. No America, sorry.” He pressed his palm to his chest and said to Cas, “Believe me, there’s nothing worth seeing here.”

At this, Cas finally glanced up. He met Balthazar’s eye and said in an indisputable voice, “I don’t think so.”

“This is ridiculous,” Balthazar sighed. “What’s wrong with you?”

Cas was silent. His expression was inscrutable, eyes locked at the bullet and neighboring vial on the table. It seemed, most of all he wished for them to disappear forever just to rid him of the choice.

“Why, Balthazar?” he mumbled at last. “What do you need me for?”

“For company,” Balthazar replied with a wide grin. “With all the angels up in Heaven, I’m getting bored being on my own…The pleasure feels differently if you can share it. Double delight.”

Cas didn’t seem convinced. A little frown ran over his face as if he couldn’t understand how his company would complement any delight, single or double.

“I—I promised to help my friends,” he said. “I can’t leave, Balthazar.”

“You can’t or you don’t want to?”

“And don’t want to.”

“I’m sure you’ll change your mind the moment your grace is restored. Why don’t you give it a try?”

“Precisely for this reason,” Cas replied with some irritation. “I can’t…I don’t want to change my mind. That would jeopardize the mission we have to complete.”

Balthazar gave him a long scrutinizing stare.

“Cas, Cas…You always were such a terrible liar.” He smiled, then leered at Dean and went on, “I’m not blind. This has very little to do with the mission, doesn’t it? There are other reasons. Liaisons dangereuses…Your mind is clouded, Cas, and I see no point in calling to your voice of reason…Not now. I know how stubborn you can be when feelings are involved.”

The hint Balthazar made was so gross that Dean ignored its insulting nature. Even worse than that, Balthazar was right. Cas was refusing to join what obviously was his true family, where he belonged, and by doing that, he would probably miss his only opportunity. Balthazar didn’t look like someone who would offer twice; and what this room had heard about angels so far made it clear they were ruthless and calculating. They were even cunning enough to offer _deals_ —just like the demons Dean’s family had hunted all his life. And as it turned out, angels were no better.

Hating himself for what he was about to say, Dean reached out to touch Cas on the shoulder.

“Cas, wait…It’s…Maybe it’s not what you should be doing, man. Not for us. Sam and I will be fine, if we have this damned bullet, it’s gonna be all right over there…We’ll get back, beat Crowley, grab the silver and be gone for good…or pretty much so. You don’t have to…like, uh…If you want, you can leave with him, you know?” He stopped to gasp for air, as he missed all of it while talking. Then, reluctantly, he went on, “It’s not fair to make you stay if you wanna go.”

“Smart boy,” Balthazar nodded. “You see, Cas, even your so-called friend doesn’t mind!”

“I didn’t say that!”

“He didn’t say that!”

Balthazar paid no attention to Sam and Dean’s yells. He was looking at Cas, still waiting for his answer.

“So…” he said gently, “are you coming or you’re going to languish in misery for the rest of your short human life?”

Cas kept glaring at the floor, his gaze fixed at the shattered glass as though he was counting the shards. He was standing very still, his arms outstretched alongside his body, disheveled head bent down with what could be mistakenly taken for resignation. There was no glimpse of what he was really thinking. His shoulder under Dean’s palm was as stony as his look. If he’d heard Dean’s words, he never let it show.

When he finally spoke, it came all of a sudden, as if a church statue started talking to beat boredom.

“I think you are wrong, Balthazar.” His voice was almost solemn, revealing how serious Cas felt about what he was saying. “This land is not miserable or doomed, as you say. It is having hard times now, but I believe it will be prospering. And this is my…home. My only home, a place where I can be…” he paused a little, “…useful. I don’t want to leave it.” A faint smile stirred his lips as he added, “And I don’t think I need any other.”

Balthazar listened to him, shaking his head in sad disbelief.

“Cas, but the platypus?..”

“It will have to do without me.”

A long, dramatic sigh followed, then Balthazar said, “Cas, you’re hopeless. I’m not saying you’re _lost_ , mind you, but at the moment you are totally out of context.” He cast a regretful glance at the table, probably ensuring his both valuable artifacts were still there after so many speeches. “But as your friend—your very old friend!—I should be tolerable, shouldn’t I? I won’t take advantage of you. It’s like kicking a puppy.” He took a step closer, making Dean move away, and said slowly, leaving behind all his sarcasm, “Cas, I won’t force you. I know you’ll return. Sooner or later, but you will return to where you really belong. And once you do, I’ll feel it the same instant. Actually…I’m not in a hurry. I’ll wait.”

And in a moment he was gone, followed by a distinctive flapping sound.

Both the vial and the trapping bullet still were on the table where Balthazar had put them.

#

A half-hour later (part of which Dean had spent in a mind-saving conversation with the Salt Lake House owner, who was very curious about the damaged windows and eager to define a responsible party), the three of them were again seated around the table. It was now cleaned of the shards and wiped clean of spilled whiskey, and nothing but the two tiny objects in the center remained after what had happened here.

This emptiness felt somewhat weird, but no one seemed interested in drinks anymore. Eventually, Sam grabbed the bullet and started to study it closely, and Dean, left alone, gave up trying not to stare at Cas.  

Since Balthazar left ( _flew away_ , Dean mentally corrected himself), Cas never said a word. He was sitting motionless, his back rigidly upright, his hands on his lap. He didn’t attempt to reach for his grace vial, even to have a look, and to Dean, this appeared to be an encouraging beginning for whatever they were about to face. Because what he had said was all but reassuring.

Of course, Cas had been diplomatic. Exceptionally diplomatic and elusive like a conger-eel. He had neither admitted Balthazar’s intimations nor rejected them. What he had actually said was probably truth—after all, Dean and Sam thought the same thing about their homeland—and still, there was a good deal of ambiguity. Maybe Cas had doubts about his angelic powers (which wouldn’t be surprising considering how long he had lived as a human), or maybe he just wasn’t ready to join his kindred. _With a son of a bitch like Balthazar representing it_ , Dean thought, _no wonder Cas wasn’t ready. No one would be._

Dean lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at Cas, trying to penetrate through his shell of detachment. Reading other people’s minds had never been Dean’s strong suit (and his only positive experience was doing guesswork on whether Sam was hungry), so after a minute of blank staring, he felt he wasn’t really reflecting anymore. He was just looking—at the chiseled jawline and long lashes, at soft lips, at sunset beams playing on high cheekbones, leaving their delicate golden touch here and there.  The sun did not have to ask permission to touch Cas, and Dean felt a prick of jealousy.

It was almost ridiculous. Earlier on, it was the preacher’s collar (and no, Dean was not that spoiled), and now this. What looked like an annoying obstacle had reached the dimensions of Mount Nebo. A preacher—that was something he could overcome, but he had no idea how to behave with an angel. _Is an angel chaster? Purer? And what about the fallen one? Does it grant any excuse?_

A bitter irony of his own thoughts startled him. Until this moment Dean had not realized how serious it was—it became—and his past worries immediately felt silly and insignificant. Especially compared to the fact that sooner or later, Cas would spread his invisible wings and fly away.

_Fly away._

If Cas chose to leave with Balthazar, he would probably be somewhere over Europe now. Or even further, downing onto blossoming lands of the southern hemisphere…Dean had no clue about angels’ flying speed. It could be easily high enough to round the Earth in a wingbeat. Anyway, chasing eternal spring sounded like a much more appealing prospect than hunting demons in an America aflame with war.

Dean wondered suddenly whether angels could read human minds. Since they could see hellhounds and stop running horses with a gesture of a hand, most likely they could. That made the whole thing even more awkward than it seemed. Right now, there was enough in Dean’s head to write a book.

He suppressed a sigh. Perhaps for the first time in his entire life, he didn’t know what to do or say.

As if in a casual attempt to help him, Sam placed the bullet back onto the table.

“We have to do some errands before we leave,” he stated, getting up. “Will you two stay here or join me?”

The way he said it made Dean wish to leave this room immediately.

“I think I’ll stay. Cas?”

Cas flinched a little, as if not expecting to be asked.

“I will stay.”

Sam grabbed his gun and tucked in into the holster and then, suddenly looking very busy, he tightened his belt buckle and pulled up his boots. Dean watched him, moaning silently. As Sam checked and double-checked everything he could think of, he finally headed towards the door.

“Take care,” Dean directed him, “and don’t talk to strangers.”

Sam scoffed for a reply and walked out.

When his footsteps faded out, Dean left his seat and rounded the table.

“You all right?”

Cas hesitated a moment, then looked upwards. His expression was somewhat weird—more than usual—and Dean wondered if it was for the things Cas just had learned about himself, or for them two being alone in the room.

“I think I am,” Cas said slowly. As he went on, his voice got steadier, “I—I needed some time, but now I am fine. What about you?”

Dean forced a shrug, “Well, apart from my…my best friend being an angel, I’m yeah…pretty good.”

“A fallen angel,” Cas corrected him. “I have to admit, my feelings about this are very controversial.”

“Do you remember anything? Of…of the past you?”

“Not quite distinctly, actually,” Cas shook his head. “I don’t remember falling.”

He raised his hand to his right temple as if trying to sort out his confused memories. Dean held his gaze at the slim palm and long fingers elegantly arched outward at the joints. _A human form_ , he remembered, _that’s just a human form…but so damned attractive._

“Everyone can fall down,” Dean noted eloquently, easing himself onto the edge of the table next to Cas. “What really matters, is how fast you get up.”

“And for what purpose.” Cas stood up and walked to the shattered window. With a lingering look to the skies, very similar to the one Dean had seen the night they’d left San Juan, he muttered, “I can’t believe it used to be my home. So high above, so far…”

Unable to stop himself, Dean asked, “Far from what?”

“From everything I know. From this land with its little towns and dusty roads, from its rocky mountains and rivers, from its courageous people, so stout of heart…” Suddenly, he turned his head and added, “And from you, Dean.”

Somehow Dean felt this wasn’t the moment to interrupt. He just gripped the wooden table top he was sitting on and stared at Cas, waiting for him to go on.

Cas gave him a tiny smile with the corner of his mouth.

“Actually, there was another reason why Zachariah wanted to exile me out of the commune so much,” he said. “Very personal, but perhaps no less important for him.”

“Like what, the first wasn’t enough?” Dean responded with a question merely out of habit. He was not at his best for better jokes. “And what’s the reason?”

At a slow but steady pace, Cas came closer to him and stopped not more than an inch away. Then, just as slowly, he cupped Dean’s face with his palms, held it still for a second and pulled towards himself. His lips parted slightly and met Dean’s with a gentle, almost innocent kiss.

“This,” he said, easing himself away.

Dean felt his eyebrows crawl upward and froze stupidly in their newly formed position. A hurricane of thoughts swirling in his mind a mere moment ago vanished. Everything went totally blank as if the whole world had collapsed into itself leaving behind nothing but them two, eyeing each other with startled and embarrassed expressions.

“What was that supposed to mean?” Dean whispered, already knowing the answer.

Cas shot him another smile, a bit confused but serene and real. He had never smiled like that before.

“I followed your advice, Dean. Do you remember the day we first met? You told me that unlike you, I could choose. It seemed to me ridiculous then, but now I have changed my mind. And made my choice.”

Dean did not have to ask which choice was that. Flattered to the blushing cheeks and already feeling guilty for accepting the sacrifice he had not deserved, he took Cas by the hand and rubbed it absently with the tip of his thumb.

“But…but you’re an angel, Cas,” he mumbled, not daring to look up. “I—I just can’t…uh…I can’t do that to you. It’s not fair.”

“I was raised as a human, Dean,” Cas said, tilting his head stubbornly. Then he glanced at the vial casting its blue glow along the table surface and added, “And, technically, I am still human.”

“So what?”

“So it doesn’t change anything for me.” And without any pause, as if he had said nothing of importance, Cas went on in a casual voice, “How long do you think Sam’s errands will take?”

“Um…” Dean grinned, “knowing Sam, I’d say a while. A good while.”

“Oh.”

Cas looked a bit puzzled, so Dean explained, “I think he is sort of…uh…beginning to suspect something.”

“Your brother is very smart and very delicate.” Smiling again, Cas pulled Dean to himself and paused a moment to ensure a return hug followed. “I like him.” And, as Dean pinched his lower back, added, “But I like you better.”

And then, unexpectedly, there was no more need to say anything. Everything became very simple and ridiculously clear, the way things had never been in Dean’s life. Angel or not, Cas was there, just an inch away, and his strong and gentle hands were holding Dean so safely tight that no force, human or heavenly, could tear him away. Dean didn’t take long to realize that he liked that touch and wished it never ended—whatever it took.

And then, as Cas kissed him again, Dean thought that Sam’s suspicions probably weren’t so groundless and the errands he’d pretended to have, were perfectly timed.

And then, he didn’t notice as he answered the kiss and returned the embrace, letting something very new but undeniably very pleasant soak through his whole body, tickling at his toes and making an insane dance inside his stomach.

And then, as Dean burrowed his face into coarse dark hair, smelling of honey and sage-brush, his last bit of thought glided through the broken window and evaporated in a thin blue air above Great Salt Lake City.


	17. Eldorado Canyon

“All right. Silver, the Colt, Crowley. The order’s subject to change.”

“I’d say—Crowley, the Colt and then silver. Not for the sake of argument, just wanna be realistic here. We can’t get to the silver until he’s disabled.”

“Crowley is realistic as hell. We can’t disable him without the Colt.”

“True…But even if we do that, his demons will shred us to pieces.”

“We’ve got only one bullet.”

“Yeah, but—”

“One bullet, Sam.”

“So what’s the order then?”

Castiel listened to them arguing sluggishly, not taking part in the discussion. He was so tired that he felt his brain was dead.

The campfire they were sitting around was crackling softly, its light casting shivering glimpses on their faces. With five hundred miles and three days of non-stop driving, all three of them were nearly on the verge of exhaustion. Sam had dark shadows under his lower eyelids, and his hand, casually pressed to the side pocket of his vest where the demon-trapping bullet was hidden, was a bit unsteady. Dean looked better than his brother, except for his eyes—narrowed in a permanent alert, they had faded to pale green, the shade of old grass. And looking at them, Castiel felt it wasn’t only for the long road they’d left behind. This weariness was closer to the desperate, eventual determination of soldiers before a crucial battle. Which actually wasn’t such a metaphor anymore.

They settled for the last night about fifteen miles away from San Juan. However, the stop ‘to set up a plan and everything’, as Dean had explained their break, was barely progressing anywhere beyond a simple dinner that they made out of their low supplies.

Dean poured a cup of hot coffee and shoved it into Castiel’s hands.

“This is like that stupid river crossing puzzle about a fox, a goose and a bag of beans,” he said, sitting down again. “I was never good at these.”

“I don’t know this puzzle, Dean,” Castiel said. “What is the question about this strange set of items?”

Dean chuckled softly. “It’s like, you know…a farmer has to cross the river taking aboard only one thing, but the other two have to stay safe.”

“I see…so if this poor farmer takes the beans and leaves alone the fox and the goose, the fox will eat the goose?”

“Yeah, sort of. And if he takes the fox, the goose will eat the beans.”

“And what if he takes the goose?” Castiel asked, but after a brief thought, answered himself, “Oh, but of course, then the second ride will produce the same result…The goose will end up with the fox or the beans and something will get eaten.”

“Exactly,” Dean nodded. “It’s complicated.”

“Not that complicated, Dean,” Sam stepped in. “The solution is rather simple if you think of it…I mean, you just gotta keep them separate, that’s all. Don’t you remember?”

“Get off, Sammy.”

“But maybe father Cas is interested? I’ll explain,” Sam turned to Castiel and opened his palms to imitate two shores of the river. “Like I said, it’s all about keeping the menacing items separate. First, he takes the goose over.” Sam put a pebble onto his left palm. “Then goes the fox, and the goose is carried back.” He added another pebble, of slightly different shape, and took out the first one into his right hand. “On the third ride, he takes the beans.” One more pebble, a smaller one, joined the second. “And on the forth, he carries the goose again.” Sam moved the first pebble to the other two clenched his fist for a moment and opened it again. “You see? It’s simple.”

Still watching Sam’s palm with three pebbles sitting together, Castiel thought it over. Now the solution to the puzzle looked very obvious.

“Apparently, most people logically don’t think that the items can be carried back and forth,” Castiel said, mentally playing over Sam’s words. Something in them had caught his attention momentarily, but he let it slip away. “It’s a good riddle, Sam, I’ve never heard it before…” He paused, frowning. The escaped thought felt very important to recall, and Castiel struggled to strain his brain.

“Father Cas? Is something wrong?” Sam asked anxiously, and Dean immediately looked up too.

“No,” Castiel said hastily, “it’s all right…But I think I have missed something…” He replayed the puzzle again and finally found it—not in the answer, but in the question. With a triumphant toss of the head, he said, “Yes, this is it. Dean, I know what the farmer’s problem was.”

Dean could not help laughing. “Now, that’s a surprising statement.”

“I mean, besides the mutual eating issue,” Castiel specified. “What I mean, is that your farmer was alone. That is why he had to make his rides in a sequence.”

Sam and Dean shared a puzzled look with no hint of understanding.

Castiel rolled his eyes and started again, “Three incompatible items and only one man to handle them, that’s too hard, isn’t it? What if he had some friends to help him? Two other farmers, for instance?”

“This Mr. Know-it-all?” Dean smirked. “No way he had any. That’s what I’m always telling Sam—if you wanna make friends, just keep it simple.”

Sam groaned, “Dean…”

“What? How many friends do you have?” Dean asked, pointing at Sam with his coffee cup. “Whatever the number is, I have more.”

Castiel was this close to giving them both a good hit on the head.

“Stop, you two.” Two heads jerked up, granting Castiel silence and attention. “The farmer is not important, he may even be unable to put two and two together, that’s not the point at all.”

“Then what is?” Dean asked.

“Having two friends with boats,” Castiel said slowly, “the farmer will make only one ride over the river. And so will his friends. They will cross the river with their items all at once.” He looked Dean straight in the eye, “Do you understand now? It’s the same with our three goals. We don’t have to sort them out one by one, we can act simultaneously.”

“We’ll split,” Dean guessed. “Work as a team, right?”

Castiel nodded with a sigh of relief, “Not necessarily, but we may if we need to.”

“Winchester’s Three,” smiling, Dean gestured as if raising an invisible goblet. “Sounds awesome. No, wait…Cas, what’s your family name?”

Castiel shot him a confused glance. “I don’t know it. When I lived in the commune, everyone called me just ‘brother’, and here in San Juan…Well, you know.” And as Dean, clearly embarrassed, looked away, Castiel added, “If you don’t mind, I’ll join yours.”

“We don’t,” Sam reassured him. “We’ll be honored.”

Dean said nothing but his expression showed that he did not mind either. He nodded in content and rubbed his hands.

“Now that we’ve agreed about the major thing let’s get to the minor.”

Sam turned to face him. “Such as?”

“Silver. We know where Crowley dumps the ore, but we have no idea which shaft it’s mined from.”

“We can take samples of silver from each mine, can’t we? The way we planned at the start…Or wait, won’t the lumps you found in the abandoned mine be enough? Colt only needs…like, twenty pounds of silver? Why can’t we get it from these lumps?”

“And what if we are wrong? What if this not the silver we’re after?”

“I don’t think we are wrong, Dean,” Castiel put in. “Unless…there is some Crowley’s savvy plan behind this.”

Dean gave him a thankful nod. “That’s what I’m saying. We only have one try, and we have no right to fail at it. And actually, there’s one more thing…We can’t leave the whole damned mine shaft to Crowley. We gotta finish it, once and for all. And take as much as the stage can carry.”

“You can’t supply Colt forever,” Sam said, and Dean winced a little at the word. “Sooner or later, it’s gonna be gone again. Maybe not very soon, maybe we’ll be long dead by the time, but the silver will run out.”

“No one’s saying forever. Again, we’ll take along what we can and make sure the silver mine is safe. Colt is hellbent on keeping records of everything, you know that. Once we report about San Juan and all that, mapping the place with inch precision, our job’s done. Whoever finds Colt’s journal in the future will know where to get the right silver. Even two hundred years from now, they’re gonna just ride over here and take it.”

“Or send a telegram,” Sam added musingly, “and order delivery.”

To Castiel’s surprise, Dean didn’t start to argue at the mention of a telegraph.

“Whatever,” he said easily. “All we need to know is which shaft is the one.” He got up and walked a full circle around the fire, thinking hard. When he stopped, his expression was jubilant. “We’ll beat it out of Crowley,” he announced. “And I happen to know someone who’ll be very interested in helping us.”

Castiel said nothing. He also hoped he had someone to help—if that someone was still alive—for reasons Dean would unlikely be happy about.

The next day would bring its answers, he thought. They only had to wait a little more.

#

They drove into the dense, charcoal darkness of San Juan well before dawn. The small town was fast asleep, its main (and only) street cemetery-like empty. No flicker of light, no horse neighing followed the black stage as it wheeled through.

Castiel sat on the driving bench, his face hidden under Dean’s broad-brim hat, his head bent low as a precaution. Sam and Dean, now unwanted guests in the town, hid inside, leaning to the windows with their guns loaded and ready.

It was far from safe all the same. They were an easy target, and they knew that the moment they were spotted would probably be their last. For the stage, big and unwieldy as it was, there simply wasn’t any other road to the miners’ camp than the one through the town, and they were forced to take it despite the risk.

There was no immediate danger so far, though. Apparently, all Crowley’s demons were guarding the comfort of their master, or they didn’t pay much attention to what seemed to be an ordinary postal stagecoach with its docile, weary horses. After all, it never showed in the town before and, with a certain degree of negligence, it could be taken to be innocent. Mutely, Castiel prayed for such negligence to be there that night.

He had no idea what had happened here after they had left—and whether Meg had survived it. With all Crowley’s nonchalant demeanor, he could be as cruel as every other demon, as powerful as a few of them, and as cunning as the smartest of them. Meg, left alone, faced that very menacing combination with only a weak shield of her hostageship.

As the stage reached the saloon, Castiel pulled the reins slightly to peek into the windows. Everything was dark; glasses weren’t clinking, an untuned piano was silent.  When Meg had been in, it had never been so quiet. Most certainly, Meg was in trouble, maybe even dead. She’d helped them to escape and paid a high price for that. _Like everyone who helps me,_ Castiel added to himself.

If only he were able to locate her, there could be a chance. But where would Crowley place her? There was no prison in San Juan, no warehouses, no cellars in the hard rocky ground. The sheriff’s office didn’t appear a safe cage either. Castiel trusted Crowley to drop her into one of the abandoned mine shafts and block the entrance so that no one would ever find her. And in fact, that was the easiest thing for him to do.

Castiel strained his ears but heard nothing. His special hearing that had served him so well at times was gone now. He sighed quietly and still thinking about his unfortunate friend, spurred the horses.

Soon, the stage passed the last shapeless buildings on the main street and left the town. The road became closer, with dark bushes sticking out at each side. The horses slowed down to a speed of a human step, sniffing in discomfort. The few last miles to the Upper Camp threatened to be the toughest.

In a while, as the road swerved, Castiel caught sight of his cabin. It suddenly occurred to him that after all their adventures, his clothes were as dusty as the road and stiff with dried sweat. Unlike Sam and Dean, he didn’t have a change with him, and despite hasty laundry that he’d cleaned at the roadside creeks, he hardly looked like a preacher anymore. Believing that it would be inappropriate to face the people who knew him in such a state, he pulled over.

“What’s up?” Dean asked him, sticking his head out of the window.

“I need a few minutes to change.”

“You look gorgeous,” Dean replied, and although Castiel could not see anything in the dark, he guessed that Dean was smiling.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel said. “This is the most flattering lie I’ve ever heard, but you’re biased.” He jumped onto the ground and promised, “It won’t take long.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Dean joined him, and together they headed to the cabin.

It looked intact—at least as far as Castiel could see —with its brushwood roof in place, walls standing upright and even the door carefully shut. Whoever had taken care of it was surprisingly deliberate, and Castiel whispered his thanks. Perhaps, he thought inadvertently, the kerosene lamp would be on its usual shelf as well, otherwise they had a good chance of breaking their legs.

Dean waited for Castiel to step on the porch, darting suspicious glances around. Castiel had already reached for the door when Dean suddenly stopped him.

“Wait.”

“It’s my home, Dean.”

“You’ve got company in there.”

Now Castiel could feel it himself—the cabin wasn’t empty. Someone who stayed inside did not make any noise, though, it just was some irrational yet distinct sensation of _presence_. And, quite unexpectedly, this presence did not feel hostile.

“In that case, it’s my responsibility to give them a proper greeting,” Castiel said, and before Dean could stop him, pushed the door open.

At first, he didn’t see anything—the room was as dark as the night outside. But when he fumbled the lamp and lit it, they both froze still.

In the middle of the room, right under the demon trap drawn on the ceiling, there sat Meg, her ankles crisscrossed, her back leaning onto the leg of the table. She was hardly recognizable—with streaks of blood all over her face and arms, her little leather jacket gone, and her dress torn away in total disarray. The only good thing about her was that she was still alive.

“Perfect timing, unicorn,” she said, smiling with her split mouth. “I was just about to get bored.”

Castiel rushed to help her get up.

“Meg…Oh, Meg…” he muttered, vainly trying to put her ragged dress back together. “Are you…” he stumbled at the word, “…all right?”

“Not really,” she responded. Then she looked him in the eye and added, “You know how to keep a lady waiting, don’t you, rude boy?”

She was joking, of course, but Castiel immediately felt uneasy in his gut. He took Dean’s knife and scratched a line through the demon trap, setting Meg free. She stepped out of the circle and drew a sigh of relief.

“Now, that’s better…” She hesitated a moment, keeping her gaze at Castiel. “I see you haven’t missed me.”

That wasn’t a question—Meg was too smart to be cheated. Whatever she had seen in Castiel’s eyes, told her the whole story, maybe even fuller than Castiel could tell it himself.

“You stayed here all the time?” he asked, avoiding the slippery slope. “All the week?”

Meg nodded, “Ten days.” She glanced at Dean and winced, “I think I told you not to come back.”

“Forgot to ask you,” Dean said defiantly.

“I don’t care about you,” Meg licked a droplet from her bleeding lip and pointed at Castiel, “I care about him.”

“I’m fine, Meg,” Castiel said quickly, “please don’t wor—”

“And about myself,” she interrupted, “because Crowley will come back, and once he sees that I’m gone, he’ll be mad.”

“Was it him who did this to you?” Dean asked, looking down at her scratched and bruised arms.

“Good guess. It was. And you know what? He enjoyed it, that arrogant asshole! Looks like no one taught him not to hit women.”

“Demons.”

“It’s not an excuse.” Meg raised her hand and wiped her face with a dress sleeve. She didn’t bother to patch it up with her demon power and bared her shoulder. “I wonder why he didn’t follow _you_.”

Castiel recalled the ‘Wanted’ placards but said nothing.

“Maybe he was too busy mourning his doggies,” Dean supposed.

Meg giggled. “He’s not that sentimental,” she said. “Well…it was nice to see you two again but I’d better be leaving now.”

“Where to, Meg?”

“Away.” She smiled mysteriously. “Don’t take it personal, unicorn, but your cabin as it is makes me upset.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she reassured him.

She raised her hand to snap her fingers, but Castiel followed her to the porch. Hating himself for taking advantage of his friend who had suffered so much because of him, he asked, “Do you have any idea where the Colt might be? The one Crowley took?”

Meg pressed her finger to her lips, thinking.

“Crowley has a weird sense of humor when it comes to hiding things.”

“We’ve noticed that,” Dean said, nodding, and added, obviously referring to the silver lumps he had found, “Ashes to ashes, similar to similar, right?”

“Sort of. You can turn his office on its head, check every bug hole and every crack in his floor, and you’ll find nothing. He’ll watch you searching and he’ll be laughing at you like a child at a funny toy.”

“Yeah, I got that, but what about the Colt?”

“I don’t know.” Meg shrugged her shoulder and gave Dean a gracious smile, “Think.”

And in a moment, she was gone.

Dean followed her with a blank stare.

“I think that counts as cooperation,” he noted. “Winchester’s Four, aren’t we?”

#

“I thought you weren’t gonna come back,” Benny Lafitte said, emptying his cup in one confident gulp.

Despite the early morning, a heavy scent of the root beer filled the tent. Dean crinkled his nose but said nothing. They needed Benny to help them—voluntarily—and had to be patient.

They were seated at a shaky table inside Benny’s canvas tent. After a calm but relatively short night, Sam and Dean, wearing their usual shirts and vests, seemed vigorous and alert, all fatigue almost gone from their faces. Castiel himself had been too anxious to fall asleep, so now he still felt low on energy, and his clerical collar and coat weren’t helping him to restore what had been left of it.

The conversation wasn’t really flowing. Benny was obviously reluctant to talk, his head with abiding cap half turned to the inner curtain, where Andrea, his wife, was shuffling the dishes, demonstrating his true concern.

Dean sighed and straightened his hat, running his fingers along the rim.

“Damn, Benny, but we had a deal,” he said in a huffy voice. “Why would we back off?”

“Well,” Benny chuckled, “others always did. I told you, they never showed up again. Maybe it was Black Fergus, I dunno…Or maybe the dogs did the job for him. The night you left, the camp was a total mess.”

“Oh, really?” Dean said, raising his eyebrows in chaste surprise. It was amazing to see how artistically he could act when he needed to.

Benny nodded.

“Ask anyone here, all my folks heard something was happening at the shafts. I never went there, but they say that Black Fergus let the dogs out and some unlucky lad got hurt.” He kept his gaze on Dean for a moment, then added, “Don’t get me wrong, brother. I help when I can help, and I know when to stay away. I’ve got a family to feed.”

“Sure thing,” Dean said sincerely.

“Good that you left. The beasts are gone now, though.”

“Are you sure no more hounds are left in the shafts, Benny?” Castiel asked him. “I remember there appeared to be a few of them.”

“I didn’t check myself, father Cas. It’s, you know, not what you’re gonna do if you’re still sane. But the next day, I met Black Fergus in town, and he was kinda furious.”

Considering what he had found at the mining camp, Castiel thought, with all demons trapped and the hounds killed, Crowley’s fury was quite understandable. It was fortunate that he hadn’t wiped the whole town off the face of the earth. Perhaps, he valued his silver more than revenge.

“Has anyone been hurt?” he asked.

“Not that I know of, father Cas.”

“Thank God,” Sam whispered.

Benny was eyeing them with increasing interest. “Why?”

“Well…Forgiveness is not your sheriff’s strong suit,” Dean said diplomatically, “is it?”

“Yeah, right…But d’ya have anything to do with it?”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Dean hurried to say. “Let’s get back to business, shall we?”

“Business!” Benny scoffed. “That really makes me laugh, y’know?”

“No, why?”

“‘Cause it’s kinda no profit for you, folks,” Benny replied with a shrug. “Even the ore from the richest mine here is not worth twelve dollars a pound. You’re gonna throw your money into the air, brother.”

“I’m not talking about my business now,” Dean said firmly. “I’m talking about yours. Do you know Crowley’s cheating you?”

“He pays the price we’ve agreed to.”

“That’s right, no doubt…Just for the ore that gets to the mill.”

“What you mean—gets to the mill? All of it gets to the mill.”

“Not all.” Dean leaned closer to Benny and went on in a lower voice, “Some of it doesn’t reach the target.”

Benny frowned with distrust, “How d’ya know that?”

Dean said nothing. Sam studied a canvas ceiling of the tent.

Visibly confused, Benny looked at them in turn.

“Black Fergus is stealing silver ore from us?”

“No,” Dean said after a long pause. “He’s not stealing, your honest sheriff, he’s…filtering. Some lumps go to the mill, some get dumped into abandoned mines.”

This perplexed Benny even more. The mere thought that Crowley was cheating at something else other than the money had obviously never occurred to him. He scratched his nape, moving his cap to his forehead, then tugged at his lips as if trying to pull up the necessary words.

“Well,” he said, thinking out loud, “it happens that the ore is so poor that it makes no sense to refine it, but…Hey, but you sure? ‘Cause to me, it looks stupid as hell.”

“We are sure,” Sam said, leaving the ceiling alone. “One of your mines has ledges of silver he has every reason to consider dangerous.”

“Are you folks mad or something?” Now Benny was almost yelling. “How on earth can silver be dangerous? It’s one of the purest metals.”

“It’s not the silver, ” Dean noted emphatically, “it’s how you use it. There are…things that silver can kill.”

Benny narrowed his eyes at him. “Merchants, eh? Don’t make a fool of me. Who are you two?”

Sam shot a quick glance at Dean and cleared his throat.

“We are the Winchesters,” he said. “I’m Sam, and he’s Dean.”

Dean pursed his lips in confirmation and furrowed his eyebrows as he added, “We save the world.”

“From what?”

“Monsters.”

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

“Not a bit. We hunt monsters, Benny. That’s our real job.”

“Which monsters?”

“Lots of them. Demons, witches, ghosts, vampires…”

Benny raised his hand, stopping Dean’s narration, “Cut it off here, brother. I don’t care if it’s real, but I ain’t gonna listen any more ‘bout this, all right?”

“As you wish,” Sam shrugged. “But it’s more real than you think. And it’s closer than you can imagine.”

“How much closer?”

“A few miles away,” Dean responded, staring Benny in the eye. His expression and voice had no trace of usual merry sarcasm, and the words were coming out in a blunt, ruthless manner. “It’s the demons who run the whole show here. They need you to mine the silver for them to control, but once they’re done with that, this town is gonna be blown away.”

Of course, Dean was exaggerating, but not too severely. Although none of them knew Crowley’s full plan for sure, there was no doubt that human souls only interested him as the subject of a bargain, regardless of what happened to their owners. He’d never hesitated to rip a soul out or to let his demons possess a body—and he would not hesitate to snap his fingers again.

“So you’re saying…” Benny muttered, finally starting to understand, “What, Black Fergus is sorta…”

“A demon,” Dean finished for him. “And a bloody powerful one.”

“So you’re after him? What d’ya want from me, to play as bait?”

Dean shook his head.

“We need your help, Benny,” he said quietly. “Yours and your folks. Together, we’ll beat him.”

For a long moment, Benny was silent. Scratching his beard, he stared at the table, then moved his gaze around the room and stopped it at the curtain. The back room was quiet now; Andrea had finished her morning chores and was taking some rest sewing or putting down her shopping list. She was a beautiful woman, Castiel recalled, and all beautiful women always seemed to be very busy.

Apparently, Benny’s thoughts followed somewhat the same route. Still frowning, he turned to Castiel and asked, “Are you with them, father Cas?”

It was important for him, Castiel realized. He wanted to anchor onto someone he could trust.

“I am, Benny. They are good men and they are trying to help you.”

“Well,” Benny said, “if you say that, then I’m yours.” He looked at Dean and gestured, “Talk.”

And so Dean did, telling Benny about the lumps of ore they had found in the mine shaft. He reasonably omitted the reason for their appearance in there—knowing well it would end the conversation very soon. Hoping the hound-killing part would be cut short too, Castiel excused himself and left the tent to clear his mind.

He sat on a hump a few feet from the entrance. A canvas door of the tent was flapping in the breeze like a giant bird’s wing; somewhere behind, a brook murmured among the bushes. The Upper Camp looked peaceful and quiet, blissfully unaware of itself potentially becoming a battlefield on a nearly apocalyptical scale.

Benny hardly knew it either. Castiel heard his rough voice posing occasional questions on the plan Dean was explaining to him. Benny was a practical man; mining silver or fighting demons, he wanted to know each upcoming step down to the last detail.

Inadvertently, Castiel caught himself replaying Benny’s words in his mind. There had been something in them that seemed strange and momentarily alerted him, and he struggled to remember what it was.

_Even the ore from the richest mine here is not worth twelve dollars a pound._

The richest mine. That was it—the ore priced differently. Castiel had never been so deep in the mining business to know the prices, and what Benny was saying was probably quite obvious, but this had to be made clear.

“Benny,” he called over his shoulder, “isn’t all the ore worth the same?”

“Not really, father Cas,” Benny raised his voice to answer. “Some mines are richer, some are poorer. What we get for the ore depends on how much pure silver the lumps can produce after refining. Merry Andrew’s the best one, it makes about a quarter.”

Suddenly getting closer to the answer they had been looking for and holding his breath, Castiel got up and peeked into the tent. He didn’t look at Sam and Dean, but he knew they were all ears too.

“Merry Andrew,” Castiel repeated. “I see.”

“Yeah. So, on a lucky day, you can get eight or even nine dollars a pound,” Benny went on with the ignorant innocence of a drunk spy. “It’s a rich ledge.”

“And which is the worst one?” Castiel asked him.

“Why?”

“Just tell us, Benny,” Dean said.

“The Smoky Fire, I’d say. With its tenth part of pure silver, it pays just three dollars a pound, or maybe less…I don’t have a share in it, so can’t be sure.” Benny nodded to himself, then looked up again. “But why d’ya ask? What’s the difference?”

“I believe it makes a very significant difference, Benny,” Castiel said.

Sam and Dean shared a look and nodded. They did not take long to understand the difference too.

“Benny,” Dean said, getting up, “I guess it’s now time to call your folks up.”

#

“So you see what this bastard was doing, huh?” Dean was saying in a prompt whisper as they followed Benny to the mine shafts. “When he discovered what kind of silver the Smoky Fire had, he made them think that the mine was poor. Crowley paid them as little as he could and dumped all the raw ore to the abandoned shafts. And then, to divert suspicion, he was spreading out the safe silver amongst other mines. It wasn’t enough to pay an honest price, ‘cause in fact, there was less silver in total, but in the end, it was sorta not too bad. I wonder, by the way, how rich the other mines really are to make an average of eight dollars a pound.” He cut off to jump over a stone on his way and went on, “And you know what’s funny? He wasn’t actually cheating. Well, almost.”

“Benny doesn’t think so,” Sam responded. “And that helps.”

Indeed, Benny didn’t go into such level of detail. Once he had understood his lost profit, he did not seem to care either about its reason or about the nature of the villain that had been cheating him. He wasn’t shocked or scared to find out Crowley was a demon; in Benny’s eyes, first and foremost, he was the one who did not pay a fair price.

And that meant that the plan could work.

The fence that Castiel had ruined a week ago was now fixed and back in place. Benny slammed the gate open and strode inside like an unleashed bulldog. His eyes were narrowed in anticipation of a hasty revenge.

Apparently, most of his men were hard at work in the shafts. Here and there, the mattocks were pounding vigorously, muffling all other sounds. Their random thumping made Castiel’s head hurt, each blow echoing inside like thousands of little hammers mixed with a soft purling of water. He suppressed a will to squeeze his temples and walked forward, to the clearing where Benny, Sam, and Dean were already standing.

At Benny’s loud call, the miners started to crawl out of the mine shafts. There were about forty men, young and aged, their austere muddy faces glittering with sweat. They came out as they were, with tools in their hands and rock dust on their clothes, making them strangely alike in appearance.

Benny set his cap and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Folks,” he started, “I got news for ya.” He took a moment to watch forty heads jerking up all at once and went on, “Black Fergus has been underpaying us. These two gentlemen,” he nodded at Sam and Dean, “have just opened my eyes to this. And you know what? I’m not gonna stand for it any longer. So I wanna ask…Are you? Tell me, are we only able to crash the rocks or are we gonna fight?”

A brief silence followed, and then a choir of excited voices filled the clearing.

“No way! We’ll fight!”

“Son of a bitch!”

“What this bastard thinks he is?!”

“We’re gonna fight!”

“Let’s go teach him how to count!”

“Yeah, when it comes to other people’s money!”

“He’s gonna stop treating us like this!..”

They went on and on, encouraging and elbowing each other, threatening and getting worked up for the fight. Castiel listened to them, wondering if what Sam and Dean had plotted could be considered an intentional manipulation. There certainly was a strong element of it, although, taking into account what the eventual goal was, it hardly was malicious. It was worth it, he decided to himself. They were doing the right thing.

Benny pulled him at the sleeve.

“Won’t you tell them a few words, father Cas? To lift the spirit?”

Castiel hesitated a little (he was not quite in the mood or condition for memorial speeches) but then nodded.

“Of course.”

He suddenly sensed a leather string pulling around his neck. It was the vial with his grace, still sealed and hidden securely under his shirt. He thought he wouldn’t mind having some of the angelic power inside him (with Balthazar, it appeared to be a conveniently natural feature of his entity), but he was positive it wasn’t the right moment to use it. He brushed his fingers along his chest, pausing a second on the vial, and looked up.

The miners were lined in a semicircle in front of him, all silent and waiting.

Trying hard to ignore the swirling inside his head, Castiel started to speak.

“All of you know me. Many of you came to my place to seek help or consolation. And while doing my best to provide those, never did I tell you what to do. And I won’t start now. I have no right to guide you.” Not really sure if what he was saying made any sense, Castiel shot a side glance at Dean. It wasn’t until he received an approving nod that he went on, “I won’t tell you to stand up and fight, as I won’t tell you to flee and save yourselves. It is only your decision. Your conscience that should advise you what to do. Your free will.” He gasped for air and finished, “But those of you who have made their choice already may come up to that stagecoach,” he gestured over his shoulder, “and pick up an appropriate weapon. These two gentlemen, um, my friends will provide you with any necessary assistance. And may the Lord…do the same.”

The crowd of miners burst out with cheerful shouts.

In less than half an hour, Sam and Dean’s secret armory under the bottom of the stage was nearly empty. All Benny’s people—none of which backed off—were armed with salt-loaded rifles and silver knives and had anti-possession sigils drawn hastily on their chests. Perhaps they weren’t as good as trained hunters, but each of them perceived this fight as a matter of personal revenge, and this fact was definitely boosting their morale.

On Dean’s command, the whole company rushed ahead. Bawling out loudly, threateningly waving their rifles, the miners planted themselves a few yards from the mill building. Stones and clots of mud came flying through the air, some of them even hitting the door, some just landing vainly around the porch.

For a few moments, the guardians of the mill were silent. But then, the door opened slightly, and a black-eyed face peeked out. The demon observed the shouting crowd and without saying a word, escaped back into the building. A minute later, he reappeared again, now in full frame and accompanied by two others.

“Good job, Cas,” Dean murmured into Castiel’s ear and pointed at the porch of the mill where a few demons were now standing, clearly bewildered at a sudden revolt. “Now we just have to wait for them to summon Crowley, but we’re not gonna stay for the finale.”


	18. Man on a Silver Mountain

Crowley didn’t take long to appear. He emerged on the mill porch out of nowhere—a grotesquely iconic villain in black, his coat without a single crinkle, a smoking cigar in his hand and a quizzical smile on his lips. On his chest, next to the breast pocket, shone the sheriff’s star, and Dean wondered what material it was made of.

He was watching Crowley discreetly, hidden behind the entrance frame of one of the shafts. Sam and Cas sat next to him, crouched under the low roof. As much as all of them wanted to join the fight and help Benny’s folks, they had to wait for the right moment.

And there was no doubt that the fight was upcoming.

For a minute or two, Crowley kept watching the roaring crowd, then raised his hand, demanding silence.

“All right,” he said in a calm, almost careless voice, “what was so urgent that it couldn’t wait for my regular visit?”

“Money!” someone shouted.

“Money.” Crowley rolled his eyes and pointed at the direction of the voice. “And that’s it? Money? Much ado about nothing, indeed…And what about the money?”

The crowd shuffled, and a few men yelled at once, “We want a fair price!”

“Yeah, a fair price, MacLeod!”

At this, Crowley raised his eyebrows as if it was the most ridiculous thing he had heard in his life.

“A fair price?” he repeated. “But you’ve agreed to that price, haven’t you? You’ve signed the contracts, if I may remind you, and in clause fifty-six of the terms and conditions, the price for the raw ore was set in nice plain figures. You get eight dollars a pound, and with the present-day economy, it’s more than fair, trust me.”

This statement was met with a new round of shouting which was getting more aggressive every moment. A few miners lifted their rifles, someone even fired haphazardly into the air, though not causing any damage.

“We want ten! Ten a pound and no dime less!”

Crowley’s expression went from annoyed to embarrassed.

“Oh, come on,” he mumbled, wincing, “you can’t be serious. Ten dollars? All this storm in a teacup is over two bloody dollars difference?” He drew a dramatic sigh. “This is pinheaded stupidity, gentlemen. You’re literally ruining my faith in humanity, all of you.” He glanced over the heads and went on, “Not that I don’t like to finish this on such a pathetic note, but why don’t we just wish each other a lovely day and get back to work?”

In a split second, he realized his mistake. The miners didn’t come to negotiate, they came to fight for what they believed to be important. They drew a battle cry and pushed forward, surrounding the mill. Soon, there was less than a yard between them and the demons.

Crowley stepped back. His demons blinked and turned their heads around as if looking for guidance on what to do. Their hesitation had, in fact, a self-evident  explanation: they could kill one or two people, but killing all of them would mean that the mine shafts would be empty of a labor force.

In the last attempt to settle the riot, Crowley raised his cigar.

“Gentlemen,” he called, trying to muffle the raging crowd, “all right…All right! If you’re so insistent, we can probably discuss new conditions…If you please take a break?..”

But nobody was listening to him anymore. On Benny’s command, the miners attacked.

The demons standing closer to them, guarding Crowley with their backs, got punched in their faces first. One of them fell down, causing even more confusion; others hovered, looking back at Crowley and waiting for his orders.

“So, I suppose the negotiations are over,” he said, his voice sounding almost pitiful. “Well…As you wish, gentlemen.”

And at this, he finally waved at his demons—a lazy, dismissive gesture one could use to call up a waitress at the saloon—to fight back.

In mere seconds, the clearing in front of the mill was a total mess full of gunshots, screams, thumps, clangs, and scraps of fabric. The demons were stronger, but the miners had obvious numerical superiority which they were using with surprising dexterity. The miners were fighting with the courage and devotion of the Apocalypse survivors. As the silver knives reached their targets, a few black clouds went off swirling in the air.

 _They’re doing just great,_ Dean couldn’t help himself thinking. _The best backup we could ever dream of_.

But the demons weren’t standing still. More and more of them emerged from the mill and joined the battle, flashing their black eyes around. Salt loads did not kill them, only stopped them for a while, and silver knives were barely able to blunt the attacks anymore. At some moment, in the middle of the scramble, Dean noticed Benny’s back—he was fighting off two demons hanging on each of his arms. Other miners were gathering spalls of ore and throwing them at the demons in the hope that unrefined silver would still work.

Dean’s hands became itchy. Benny and his people needed help, and it was getting urgent.

He peeked out of the shaft. Crowley was nowhere to be seen. Not looking back, Dean reached for Sam’s shoulder.

“Go, Sammy.”

A quiet rustle behind him showed that Sam had heard the call. Dean drew out his knife and eased back, opening the way.

“Luck, folks,” Sam said and, unnoticed by anybody, broke into a run across the mining site to where the stage was waiting.

Dean followed him with a tense stare. The rest of their plan now depended heavily on Sam’s luck.

Cas squeezed his hand. “He will make it, Dean.”

“I hope so. And now,” he squared his shoulders, “let’s go get’em!”

They jumped out of the mine shaft together—like corks from sparkling wine bottles—shoulder to shoulder, their right hands holding silver weapons.

For a moment, they stopped to assess the battlefield, and then Dean cried from the top of his lungs, “Hey, get your demon asses out here!”

His invitation worked out even sooner than they had anticipated. A few demons rushed to them before Dean and Cas even reached the fighting crowd.

At the sight of them, unexpectedly, Dean felt very calm and confident. The demon faces, distorted with blind fury, lost their last bits of humanity. Now, these were just the beasts, alien creatures Dean had been hunting all his life. Whatever troubles he used to have with people, with demons he knew his way around much better.

He roared to himself and plunged his silver knife into the first demon’s chest.

Dean’s mind and vision barely registered what was happening next. He fought like the devil himself (at least it seemed that he did), he was punching, stabbing and hitting the enemies left and right. In the split moments he took to gasp for air, he caught sight of Cas—with a hardly recognizable, unreadable face and a silver blade clenched in his hand, he was fighting vigorously, and so far did not need any help. _Destroying Angel at work._ Cas knew his job no worse than Sam and Dean (or maybe even better), and in the madness of the battle, this thought was strangely encouraging.

At first, their contribution did not appear significant. The fighting sides were almost even, the blows followed and got repelled, the bodies merged into each other and got separated the next moment, the screams continued unabated. But then, slowly, gradually, the demon crew began to withdraw. Plumes of black smoke multiplied, bursting forth and up, and lifeless bodies were falling onto the ground one by one.

“They’re retreating!” someone shouted, and the others immediately took advantage, pushing the demons further to the mill, forcing them to form a group. And within a few long moments, there they were—blank-faced, hardly reaching the people anymore, wincing at the salt loads hitting them.

All the miners—those who were lying on the ground wounded and those who still kept fighting— yelled at a close victory. It wasn’t an easy one, but it was there, almost feasible, as was the decreased demon army, flailing around on the porch, trying to squeeze through the narrow door.

Benny Lafitte looked around, and Dean waved to him with his bloodied knife.

“Hey, Benny,” he cried out, “get the bastards inside!”

Benny nodded in mute comprehension and turned to gather his men. They were fewer too, but as far as Dean could see, no one was killed, and the wounded ones mostly had limb fractures and scratches from the demons’ blows. _They’re gonna be alright_ , Dean told himself, glancing rapidly over the battlefield, _now they’re gonna be…_

He was about to move towards Benny to finish up the whole thing together when Cas appeared nearby and took him by the arm. His clerical collar did not have a single white spot anymore, there were blood streaks on his face too, but that wasn’t why Dean stared at him wide-eyed. Cas looked worried.

“Cas? What’s wrong?”

Instead of answering, Cas looked down at his wet boots, then shifted his gaze to the clearing uphill, and finally stared back at Dean. His expression was grim.

“This brook…It wasn’t here,” he said in a low voice.

“What you mean—it wasn’t here? It’s just water, isn’t it?”

“Exactly, Dean. It’s water, but it’s _new_ water. And it’s coming from somewhere…Look,” he pointed at the rillets running among the stones, “it’s getting stronger every moment.”

Indeed, the brook was visibly gaining strength. Clean purling water was on the fast flow, swerving around the rocks, washing out the dust and small pebbles. Right in front of their eyes, the brook was turning into a confident creek, tending to turn into a narrow mountain stream.

“So what the hell is that?” Dean muttered, mesmerized by the view. “Don’t tell me this is another of Crowley’s jokes.”

The way Cas frowned at that told Dean that his guess was correct. But even without that, some sixth sense hinted that with Crowley being suddenly gone, things could not possibly be going well. Not in Dean’s experience. The battle with the demons nearly won so incredibly easily, the precious silver so close to being theirs, all of them still being alive—this was just too good to be true, and the only explanation Dean could find was that he had missed something important.

He tilted his head, thinking hard. Nothing came to his mind.

“Cas, you know Crowley better. What would you do if you were him?”

It seemed that Cas had been waiting for that question—his answer followed in no time.

“Resign.”

“Yeah, but before that?”

“Before that,” Cas rolled his eyes, “I would pursue my initial goal or make sure no one else is successful at doing it.”

Dean looked at his feet. The water was rising.

“Where is it coming from? Is there a river or something nearby?”

Cas squinted, following the creek upstream, as if uncertain what he had been asked about.

“Obviously, it’s the Colorado River, Dean.” And as Dean gazed at him in disbelief, he added in the same flat voice of a tired geography teacher, “There are no other rivers here for miles around, and technically, the Colorado River itself is about three miles away from the camp, so—”

“Wait,” Dean stopped him, raising his hand. “Cas, with all due respect…You should be going outside more often, you know. The Colorado River is not just three miles away. It flows in a totally different direction. Even a flood wouldn’t make it high enough to reach the camp…It can’t possibly get here.”

But Cas didn’t even glance up.  

“It can’t, um, naturally,” he said after a pause, keeping a meaningful gaze at his silver blade. “But otherwise…”

Dean froze still. He understood.

A quiet, peaceful, wide-in-its-middle stream, the Colorado River that had been flowing right from North to South, leaving San Juan and the Upper Camp on the left shore, had changed its route at the right angle—at demonic folly. And now it was aiming the mining site directly and inevitably.

“That son of a bitch is gonna flood the shafts…” Dean muttered, not really believing his own words. “Dammit, Cas, he’s gonna flood everything!”

Cas nodded. “Apparently.”

“We have to stop him. We need to, Cas!” Dean looked around, clueless, desperate. “And why the hell is Sam taking so long…We need that bloody gun like, right now…Huh…Let’s go,” he finished vaguely, gesturing at the mill, where Benny and his men kept the demons trapped, “They’ll see to it over here.”

He turned to leave, but Cas stopped him, literally stepping into his path.

“Stay, Dean. I’ll go.” He looked Dean straight in the eye, not squinting, not even blinking, just stared bitterly. A farewell stare. “You can’t stand against Crowley. Probably I can’t either, but at least he won’t have the advantage of blackmailing me with your safety.” He swallowed and repeated, “Stay with Benny, Dean.”

Dean shook his head. “This is out of the question.”

“It wasn’t a question.” Cas averted his gaze. “I can’t…I don’t want to…risk you.”

He stumbled slightly at the last words, and Dean guessed what Cas had really meant to say instead of this neutral ‘risk’.

“I don’t want to lose you too, Cas,” he said. This was frankness he didn’t even expect of himself—until that moment when it suddenly seemed the easiest thing ever to be said aloud. “And that’s why we’ll go together.” He forced a smile and added, “And no one’s gonna get lost.”

#

It took them half an hour to reach the river—a breathtaking achievement for Benny’s horses, much more used to pulling a cart than to galloping with some insane riders on their back. And the rising water didn’t make their task easier.

Near the camp, it was barely ankle-high, but as they made it further Eastward, the torrent increased its speed and flow dramatically. It was overturning the stones, ripping out rare bushes and struggling through its way as only the relentless force of nature could dare. The horses stumbled and neighed in discontent as both the water and the riders hit them on the legs and sides.

The road Sam and Dean had taken ten days before was no more seen. The whole plain ground was covered with a flooded river, its water brown with rusty dust and pebbles, its seething surface glittering in the bright sun. The horses, now knee-high in it, were trudging forward with their last bit of strength.

At last, the terrain went slightly uphill, leaving the mad stream in a hollow between two rocks. It wasn’t there before, Dean recalled, as wasn’t the water—apparently, the littoral cliffs cracked apart to let the river flow through. The turning point had to be very close.

They sent their horses ahead, to the safety of the cliff rise, and stopped.

Crowley wasn’t there, but the result of his deed spread before their eyes. The Colorado River had indeed averted its route and was thumping vigorously at the split rocks, breaking through, fighting its way to the mining camp. All its past tranquility, all peace was gone—as its five hundred yards of width turned into five, a narrow passage had multiplied its power and awakened its natural rage.

For a moment, both Dean and Cas froze in horror. It was probably a matter of minutes now until it made it to the camp and flooded it.

They exchanged mute glances, confirming each other’s thoughts. Whatever they could try, had to be tested rapidly. They dismounted and ran to the cliff.

Dean reached it first. At a glance down, he hardly recognized the place. On his left, the river was making a turn in a ridiculously literal way: it simply stopped flowing at a certain point and was squeezing through the breakup, as though there was an invisible barrier beyond that point. On the right, right under the cliff they were standing on, there was nothing but a rocky bed with last streaks of water, quickly drying up in the sun.

“I’ll be damned,” Dean muttered as Cas joined him. “How the hell could he, huh? What kind of bloody power he’s got to do that kind of witchcraft?”

“It’s a demon power, Dean…a lot of it. Perhaps such a lot that you haven’t faced anything like it before.”

Dean swallowed and stepped closer to the edge. Immediately, his back was wet with sweat, sticking to his shirt. His hands began to tremble nastily, and he dropped to his knees to get a foothold. He never hated his disgusting fear of heights more than now when he had to focus his mind on a real danger.

“Damn…” he forced out in attempt to muffle his fear. “This is not good. Not good at all.”

Cas kneeled beside him and leaned forward, observing the shore. At the foot of the cliffs, the shards of split rocks stuck out of the water like the masts of sunken ships. At this depth, each of them was probably no lower than a human scale.

“We can’t change the stream back, can we?” Dean asked, still avoiding looking down.

“I don’t think so.”

Cas stopped gazing at the water and pressed his ear to the stones beneath him. For a moment or two, he was listening carefully, his eyes shut, every muscle in his face rigid with tension.

“They are not solid,” he said finally. “As the cliff was split, more clefts appeared besides the major one. We can’t see them, but they are there, burrowing downwards. I…hear them humming. This cliff can break up again any minute.” He looked up at Dean and finished, “And the rocks will fall off towards the void.”

Dean got the point. They weren’t able to re-route the river, but maybe the cliffs themselves could do the job.

“Let’s help them.”

He crawled back, to a somewhat safer spot, and jumped up to follow Cas who was already heading to the pile of loose stones on the opposite side of the cliff. Together, they picked one of them up, about the size of a horse's head, and dragged it closer to the crevice. Cas pointed at the target—just an uncertain spot under which he thought the inner cleft was hidden—and they lifted the stone up as high as they could and dropped it.

The whole cliff shuddered at the blow. A few small shards broke loose at the edge of it and went rolling down to be instantly swallowed by the water.

“More,” Cas said.

And they went on. They heaved the stones and dropped them, one by one, working restlessly, gasping and panting with effort. The stones were awfully heavy, unhandy to hold, and sharp at the sides, and within a few moments, Cas and Dean’s hands were covered with bleeding scratches. At the fifth stone, Dean’s back was aching so hard that he thought he’d strained it, and by the way Cas was wincing at each movement, he clearly felt the same.

But that wasn’t the worst. After a short while, Dean realized the fatuity of their work. The blows to the cliff only produced slight damage to it, sending smaller pieces of rock downward. None of them could stop the water, and none could cause a split large enough to block the stream. Perhaps the clefts were deeper inside than Cas had thought, or rather, the weight of blows was merely insufficient.

“Doesn’t work,” he exhaled, collapsing onto the ground and wiping the sweat from his forehead. “It doesn’t work, Cas…So, if you got any other ideas, now is the time.”

Cas scowled and looked away. He was standing close to the edge of the cliff, motionless. He looked weirdly magnificent standing like that, in his preacher’s clothes torn and bloodied, his round hat long gone. His neat, well-set figure was rigidly upright, the tails of his light-brown coat waving in the breeze, his whole expression calmly detached. Even his chin stood out in some kind of stubborn despair, or in resolution to go all the way—whatever it took.

Dean felt the same. He just wasn’t sure where to go.

If there were an enemy Dean could shoot or punch, he would not hesitate. He was good at it, he knew he was, but he wasn’t taught to fight the water. Even with Cas and his silver blade nearby, this wasn’t the fight they could win. There were only two of them—two feeble humans against the water element.

_And where the hell is Sam?_

With Sam, things always seemed easier (although quite often they weren’t.) His mere presence brought comfort amid the whole mess of trouble—like a gun in hand. His bright brain used to come up with ideas saving them all. He was smart, Dean’s little brother ( _well, not so little anymore, but who cares?_ ). Maybe the three of them could do more than two. _The Winchester’s Three._

In fact, Sam’s delay felt upsetting and worrisome. He had to bring back the Colt, and Dean hoped sincerely that despite all Crowley’s power, he couldn’t be in three different places at the same time. Sam had to make it.

“You know, it would be nice to have explosives right now,” Dean mumbled, still gazing at the direction of the road. “Blow up the damned cliff and be done with it.”

“There are no explosives, Dean,” Cas responded quietly. “There’s nothing, actually. Just us.”

And before Dean realized what was happening, Cas made a few steps back to where Dean was sitting, stopped astride and spread out his arms like a wingbeat.

The cliff jolted as if it had been hit by an earthquake. And a moment later, with a terrifying grinding noise, the rock cracked, sending a huge piece of it right into the crevice. It fell off with a loud rattle; and when it hit the bed, a fountain of water thick as a tree trunk shot upwards and slushed Dean head to toe.

It wasn’t until Dean had spit out the water that he understood _what_ he was witnessing.

Cas—Castiel, the fallen angel—was using his power.

He kept standing with his arms apart and fists clenched. His eyes were open, but his vacant look was directed into the void as though all of his vision was now gone. And most likely it was, for Cas didn’t appear to notice that the stream had risen even higher and was roaring and roughing, displeased with a sudden obstacle. But yet, it had slowed down at the new barrier.

Cas paid no attention to the raging element at his feet. After a brief respite, he exhaled and went on.

Dean watched him, breathless, overwhelmed with a mixture of admiration and horror. As impressive as the episode with the Indians was, now the demonstration of angel power felt entirely different. It wasn’t about ‘withholding objects’ anymore, it was about making horse-sized stones fly like pebbles.

For Cas, it wasn’t easy, though. As he sent the next piece of rock down, his face went pale, and breathing became hard. He shuddered like he was cramping, his arms dropped with exhaustion.

Dean could hardly stop himself from rushing to him. He simply didn’t dare—Cas seemed to know what he was doing, and any interference could harm more than bring any awkward help Dean was able to offer. He only moved closer to where Cas was standing—just a couple of steps—to lend a hand in case it was needed. And then Dean risked darting a glance down.

The second rock landed next to the first one, making the passage a few more feet narrower. Now, the river was struggling its way through with so much force that its stream split into three white bubbling torrents, each winding viciously around the stone tops. The rocks Cas had crashed didn’t block the river, but they certainly made the pathway more troublesome.

“Come on, Cas, just another one and that’s gonna be it,” Dean whispered. “You gotta nail the damned river.”

And Cas did. By that time, their cliff had halved so for the third rockfall, Cas aimed at the opposite shore of the crevice, the one that still stood untouched. He tilted his head towards the cliff and, with effort, raised his arms.

The rock responded with a deafening rumble. Shaking all over, for a moment or two it held on, but finally cracked, sacrificing its sharp edge to the water. Panting, Cas dropped onto his knees, his head bent low. Without a word, Dean came up to him and gently put his hand onto Cas’s shoulder.

_I’m here. I got you. It’s gonna be all right._

A sudden silence fell over the cliffs. And then, there was a finger snap followed by a familiar lazy voice.

“Three is a good number, Castiel, why don’t you stop there? Three dimensions, three alchemic primes, three little pigs…Third time's a charm.” Crowley was towering on the opposite cliff like the last chess figure left on an empty board, swaying on his heels, his hands in his pockets. His expression was almost impassive, and only as he glanced down, his mouth curved into a mocking smile. “Oh, what terrible damage,” he chuckled, frowning. “I was working so hard on it, and you have nearly ruined my water-development project…Who could suppose that your ridiculous angel craft could be so destructive?”

At the first sounds of Crowley’s voice, Cas flinched and shook off all his detachment. He was still short of breath, but as he looked up, his eyes were back to normal and focused at the dark figure across the breach.

“Crowley.”

“Don’t pretend you are surprised.”

Cas drew himself erect. “You know who I am,” he said.

Although his voice was very low, almost a whisper, Crowley heard him.

“I always knew,” he said with a forbearing smile. He fished out a new cigar from his breast pocket and lit it with a tip of his finger. “You don’t really think that I saved you for your good looks alone, do you? A fallen angel in a Mormon round hat…well, it was hilarious to see and very promising to use.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean hissed. The mere idea of someone using Cas—again—made him sick.

Crowley shot him another smile, an even wider one.

“Your vocabulary is pathetically poor, Dean. And I must say that your habit of judging things you have no idea about is becoming boring.”

“Right, I have no idea what your damned plan was,” Dean snapped, “but you know what? It failed. And you better go seek a new job. Right now.”

“Or what? You’ll punch me? Shoot me with your little gun?” Crowley laughed his pleasure, clearly enjoying the conversation. “Come on, Dean, don’t be an idiot. You are stupid, but not that stupid.”

“You’ll never get that silver.”

“But you won’t get it either,” Crowley said, “which is exactly what I wanted. You don’t think that your silly dam would change anything, do you?” He snapped his fingers, and the rock shards that Cas had worked so hard to send down below them were gone. “Eventually, everyone gets what he deserves. Alastair will have some educative experience, I’ll have my throne in Hell, and you’ll have sweet memories of this place. Isn’t it fair?”

It wasn’t even the mention of the throne that made Dean cut another sarcastic comment ready to slip off his tongue. It was the name he hadn’t heard before.

He was already about to ask who it was but Cas anticipated him.

“Alastair?” He frowned, obviously attempting to remember.

“My poor amnesiac friend…You don’t remember. Alastair is the most disgusting claimant to the Hell’s throne.”

“And I take it you come second?” Dean couldn’t help asking.

“He steals souls to torture them in Hell, and _I_ am disgusting?” Crowley said with a deeply insulted expression. “He’s the chief executioner of Hell, a torturer, a complete psychopath. You wouldn’t enjoy meeting him.”

“And you are flooding the mines,” Dean fended. “It’s no better.”

Crowley cast him a surprised look. “But of course I am! What else I could do to keep your annoying curiosity away from them? After our dearest father Cas killed my puppies, I had to improvise. Dean, no offense, but you and your brother are stubborn like wasps around a can of jam. You know you’ll get stuck, and yet you keep crawling in.” He sighed and added, “I don’t really care about that bunch of humble humans. But I’m not killing them, mind you. Live and let die, that’s what I always say. If the miners are smart enough to get away, they’ll live. If they aren’t…Well, there’s their penance. Paris is worth a mass.”

He was deliberately leading the conversation astray, Dean guessed. With what Crowley had said, things hardly got clearer, but he was right about one of them: Dean had no idea what was behind all that. And he had a gut feeling he was pretty close to the answer.

“So you think you’ve won? Have beaten that Alastair?” he teased.

At this, Crowley winced a little. “I’m working on it,” he said vaguely.

“Seriously?” Dean ribbed him, “By slaughtering the people and destroying their mine shafts?”

“You’re obsessed, Dean,” Crowley said in a tired voice. “Silver is not the goal here. It’s the means to achieve the goal.”

“Then what is it?” Cas asked. “What is your goal, Crowley?”

“Yeah,” Dean added, “why don’t you tell us. Maybe we sorta missed the point. Maybe you’re up to saving the world or something, and we just don’t get it.”

Unexpectedly, Crowley’s face became serious.

“Maybe,” he said. “You may not believe me, but I play fair. And, ridiculously, they pushed me out of business for that very reason! Me, who always brought them honestly contracted souls, me who was struggling to eliminate the silver threat for the sake of the whole of Hell, me who warned them not to trust that fanatic Alastair…But no, they only needed volumes, the cost didn’t matter.”

“The volumes you were unable to supply by doing crossroads deals.”

“People are strange,” Crowley said with a sad smile. “They prefer misery to joy, flattering themselves that at least it was their choice. I never forced them to change their minds. Moreover, I used to reject some deals for their obvious inequity. I am not selfish, I work for the good of all of Hell.”

“What a self-sacrifice.”

“Laugh, laugh. I’ll see you laughing when there’ll be no one but soulless zombies to finish your Civil War.”

Something clicked in Dean’s mind as if putting in place the last piece of the puzzle. Cas flinched slightly too, realizing the case at the same time as Dean.

“The fake prophet,” Dean gasped, startled with the truth.

“Congratulations,” Crowley grinned. “He’s playing a snide trick, that bastard. I believe you understand now why I need to take revenge upon him.”

Cas tilted his head aside. “I don’t think this is the only reason.”

“Of course not,” Crowley admitted easily. “But this is a good reason, the one I plan to use in my self-promotion.” And he went on, now glaring directly at Cas, speaking only to him, “You cannot imagine, Castiel, how much bureaucracy we have down there…Every single achievement counts. Destroyed silver mines, dismantled hunters, loyal angels…By the way, if you think about it, Castiel, we have very much in common. Both betrayed, both desperate, both looking for trouble…Or rather, trouble finds us whatever we do, but never mind. We could have made such a nice team, you and me…An angel and a demon, harnessing the power of each other, isn’t it lovely? And your lost memory was fitting the plan so well…Luckily, I still have a couple of cards up my sleeve to throw in Alastair’s face, but I am really sorry it didn’t work out with you.”

“I am not,” Cas said slowly. “You tricked me.”

“Nonsense. I did not tell you the entire truth, that’s right, but I never lied to you. I observe my own code of honor. Unlike you.” His voice became harsh, the one of a real demon, powerful and cruel. “You need a firm hand to direct you, Castiel. Your sudden spirit of adventure nearly spoiled my game. I endured when you’d brought these hunters here, endured your affair with Meg which cost me five men, endured the hounds I lost because of you…I even endured your absence without leave. But the riot at the mines? Really? You declared war on me, and friends don’t do that to one another. Not if they want to live.”

Crowley’s last words still hung in the air, when the silence around them suddenly broke. And the next moment, there came a distant rattle of hooves.

The black stagecoach was careering towards the cliffs. Dean narrowed his eyes at the two figures at the driver’s seat, and saw Meg, furiously whipping the horses, and Sam, standing next to her, leaning his back onto the roof of the stage and his right foot pressed against the front barrier. Sam’s left arm hung listlessly, but in his right, he was gripping the gun. It was the Colt gun—Dean recognized its elegant shape even from a distance. The stage was wheeling through the flooded river, sending splashes of dirty water around.

Crowley noticed it too. His expression never changed, only his eyebrow twitched at the sudden plot twist.

“Well, well…” he muttered, biting his lower lip. “It appears we have a serious security lapse at the sheriff’s office, and the demon trap designs leave a lot to be desired.” He turned again to where Dean and Cas were standing. “It’s time to break the mold of the evil image, gentlemen. I appreciate your attention, but if I have to flee, I don’t stop to strike a dramatic pose. I flee.” He sent his cigar flying over his shoulder and raised his hand. His eyes flashed red as he said, “Sorry, Castiel.”

A finger snap and a gunshot followed together. The silver bullet hit Crowley right in the middle of his chest, producing a short flaming burst between the lapels of his coat. Crowley stared at it motionless and silent, his expression frozen in somewhat sad surprise.

But all of it didn’t matter anymore.

When Dean turned back, Cas wasn’t there. The bullet had been slower than the demon’s fingers, and Crowley had not hesitated to use his advantage.  

Cas was gone.

“Cas!” Dean screamed, twisting his head all around. “Cas!!”

Lost and dazed, he knelt at the edge of the cliff and looked down. And then he saw.

Crowley had not sent Cas away somewhere. Probably, his demon power was not so strong against a fallen angel, or maybe, in a bout of residual sympathy, he simply demonstrated some strange mercy. Dean didn’t know and didn’t care. Over the edge of the cliff, he stared at Cas lying on the rocks of the river bed, his arms spread out at an awkward angle, his head tilted aside.

“Cas…”

Cas didn’t answer. The cliff he had fallen from was about forty feet high when the water was there. Now, without it, it was at least ten feet deeper.

_Fifty feet._

Gripping the rock with both hands, Dean cast another look around. Sam was running towards the cliffs, shouting something that Dean could not hear. In his ears, there was nothing but a hollow rumble, leaving the whole outer world silent.

And that moment the river went mad.

It seemed, as Crowley’s powers weakened, his demon spell stopped working as well. The Colorado river felt its freedom and suddenly recalled where it had been flowing since the day of creation. With a tremendous roar, it crashed down the invisible barrier that had been holding it, and turned. Tons of water gushed into its previous corridor, rapidly flooding the bed.

Stricken with terror, Dean watched the waves rolling over the shore. When they hit Cas’s feet, Dean drew a silent scream. He didn’t have time to climb down.

Slowly, hazily he got up. Took off his vest, unbuckled and dropped his belt. Counted to three. Swallowed with effort and counted to three again.

_It’s Cas, man. What the hell are you waiting for?_

He stepped back to take run and gain more landing space, pushed off the edge, and jumped down.

Under any other circumstances, Dean would die of fright immediately. But the moment he’d cleared the ground, he didn’t notice anything around him anymore—the wind whistling in his ears, or the land approaching at a scary speed. Nor did he hear an eerie shriek that was probably his own.

Time stopped running. The crevice, and the rock shards, and even the blue sky were rolling around Dean in a somewhat weird round dance, crossing their paths, merging into one another. And although his falling lasted no more than a few seconds, all the way down, even with his eyes half-shut, he could only see Cas, badly injured, motionless, drowning slowly in the rising water. At some split moment, Dean realized that he wasn’t afraid to die anymore—he was only afraid of failing to help Cas.

But this time, even his skittish fortune took pity on him.

Dean landed safely in the deep and surfaced a few yards from the shore. With the landscape changed, it took him a while to find Cas. The stream carried him downward, and he noticed a familiar figure almost by chance—Cas was already half-hidden by water, but Dean caught a glimpse of the light-brown coat. In a few strokes, he swam up to the shore and climbed out.

The water had risen up to Cas’s waist. The edges of his coat were floating under the surface, lifelike. The silver blade that had dropped from Cas’s sleeve was lying next to his open hand, glittering in the sunlight. Strangely, it was that particular little detail that nearly made Dean bellow from the top of his lungs—so eventual and irreversible it looked.

Paying no attention the ice-cold water running from his wet clothes, Dean rushed to Cas and collapsed onto the rocks beside him.

“Cas…Cas, can you hear me? We’ll get you outta here, you just hold on, all right?”

He hauled Cas up the shore to where the water could not reach them. As Dean eased his limp, almost lifeless body down, Cas uttered a quiet moan.

“Cas, what? What’s hurt?” Dean reached out to settle Cas’s head better, and froze as his wrists colored red. Cas’s nape was bleeding.

_Bad. Too bad._

Dean hovered over him, peering into Cas’s face, stiffened and deathly pale, an almost sphinx-like mask.

“Cas, please…Open your eyes.”

It took him an unbearably long time to do that. At last, his eyelids trembled, and then, very slowly, Cas opened them.

Dean’s breath seized in his chest. Cas’s eyes, so dazzling-blue and bright before, had faded to gray. Unfocused and bleary, they gazed upwards, past Dean. Unseeing.

“All right…all right, Cas, that’s better, that’s something…” Dean went on mumbling like that, not really giving it a thought. He just did not have any thoughts left. “You just stay still, and it’s gonna be all right…You’ll be fine, just don’t move now…”

Still looking vacantly up, Cas stirred a little.

“I think I’m dying, Dean,” he whispered.

“No!” Dean nearly cried it out and mentally punched himself for panicking. “No, Cas, you’re not…You won’t die.”

“I can’t feel anything. I’m…Something is wrong.”

Something was very much wrong, and Dean knew it as well as Cas did.

“It’s gonna be all right,” he repeated, lying. “You’ll make it.”

“No.” Cas tried to smile but managed only a crooked grin. “Not this time.”

“You won’t die,” Dean whispered, struggling to hold back the tears stinging his eyes, ”I won’t let you…I won’t, you hear me, Cas? Talk to me, look at me…look at me, Cas! Please, look at me if you can…Cas? Can you look at me? If you can’t, it’s all right, man, it’s fine, you just hold on there…Just don’t…don’t you leave! Don’t leave…”

But Cas wasn’t responding anymore. His eyes slid shut, his lips went white and parted slightly as if trying to catch a few last gasps. His features sharpened, making his face hardly recognizable, alien.

Desperate, Dean glanced around. At the top of the cliff, he saw Sam, waving to him with his good hand and shouting. Dean didn’t recognize a word, and Sam gave up trying. Pressing his left arm to his body, Sam started descending, jumping awkwardly from rock to rock. For a moment or two, Dean watched him emptily. Sam could not help them.

Nothing could help. There was nothing but the damned water and rocks, and a distant, cold blue sky. The sky that Cas didn’t remember, the sky that had carried him flying, the sky he had been able to reach within a single wingbeat. The sky that used to be his home and now watched him dying would forever remain far away from him.

_Wait._

Angels could not die, Dean thought suddenly. They were creatures of Heaven, celestial waves. They were invincible to human weapons and could heal with the touch of a finger.

_Could they heal themselves as well?_

Hastily, with shaking hands, Dean tore up the collar of Cas’s shirt. The vial was so small and thin-walled that Dean nearly had to force himself to look at what had happened to it after falling from a height of fifty feet. But against all odds, it was still there, visually intact, its leather string wet with water and stuck to Cas’s bare skin. The angel grace was shining calmly with its dense blue light, fully unaware of its owner’s sad fate.

Dean bent low and bit the string in two. A moment later, the vial was in his hand.

Holding it in his right hand, Dean lifted Cas’s head with his left. He was very gentle and cautious, but Cas still shuddered. His eyes opened, and, unexpectedly, he spoke again, his words barely audible, breathed out in brief gasps, a few at a time.

“No, Dean…Don’t…”

“But it’s your grace! It can heal—”

“I’ll better…die loving you…than live…having forgotten you.”

Cas fell silent.

 _‘_ You’ll change your mind the moment your grace is restored. _’_ Balthazar’s words flashed in Dean’s memory, now making much more sense. Cas-the-human loved him, Cas-the-angel most likely would forget him.

_But he would be alive._

Without thinking twice, Dean uncapped the vial and pressed its neck to Cas’s lips.

“Breathe, Cas! Breathe it in!”

With the remains of his energy, Cas opened his mouth.

Breaking free from the vial, the angel grace swirled in the air—a weird substance looking like a tightly squeezed cloud, shining white-blue. It only stayed floating for a few seconds and then, quite confidently, aimed towards Cas’s throat. After a moment, the whole winding light leaked through and disappeared inside.

Cas shivered as if in pain. His whole body twitched, arched wildly, and collapsed down, still flinching in uneven, torn seizures. His breath became ragged and shallow, he struggled to gasp for air but wasn’t able to inhale it. His chest heaved convulsively. Cas was in his death-throes.

Dean kept holding his head. A terrifying thought that he’d only made things worse struck him. The grace could not help Cas. Instead, it was stealing his last minutes, and Dean was just watching vainly, unable to stop it.

He hardly noticed when Sam leaped off the last rock and landed next to him, panting and wincing with pain. Taking one look at the empty vial, Sam cursed through his teeth.

“The grace…It can’t heal him…”

Dean shook his head. Sam drew a sigh.

“Balthazar said it had been painful for him…And he’d been healthy then. Maybe—”

He cut off, but Dean guessed what he meant to say. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe they had to try something else, find some other cure.

It was too late. Cas was not moving anymore. He was lying very quietly, his face snow-white, lips sealed with a solemn rigor. It was hard to say if he was still breathing.

It hurt so much that it seemed it wasn’t Cas but Dean himself who was dying on these cold rocks. Helpless to stand it any longer, Dean gave up. Carefully, he eased Cas’s head onto the ground and moved aside. He put Cas’s limp hand into his palms and closed his eyes.

And then the words—the mute words of prayer— appeared, absurdly clear in his blurred mind.

_God, if you’re there…But if your angels are here, you gotta be, right? Listen, I…We need your help over here…Like, urgently, you know? Very urgently now because Cas can die any minute…Castiel, your angel. Your son…_

He paused a moment, swallowing a lump in his throat. Then he went on.

_I know that he fell, but he’s still your son, ‘cause family don’t end in wings…Please, God. I have no idea why he fell, but it was so long ago…He doesn’t even remember that! And I’ll tell you something else. He didn’t have an easy human life. He paid his dues. And he always…always tried to do the right thing. I swear he did. So he…he deserves your forgiveness, all of it. Please…please, help him. I know you can, right? So please hurry up…_

No lightning, no thunder, no answer whatsoever followed. No surprise—Dean hadn’t really hoped to be heard, he’d rather grasped the last chance he could think of. But up above, no one cared about him.

“Dean…” Sam pulled him at the sleeve. “Dean, look…”

Reluctantly, Dean opened his eyes and froze, stunned.

Cas’s chest was glowing white-blue. The shine came from inside, lighting up his skin, making it transparent. It was everywhere and nowhere, so bright that Dean started to blink. When his vision cleared, Cas’s eyes were open.

They were flaming blue—not his usual blue, but the shining grace-blue—and the sight was so overwhelming that Dean unclasped his hands. And as he did, the glowing faded rapidly, revealing a pristinely intact body and a peacefully calm face, ruddy at the cheeks. Cas’s eyes were shut again; a healthy, rhythmic breath was coming out through his slightly parted pink lips.

“He’s…he’s alive!” Sam whispered, staring wide-eyed at the miracle they had just witnessed. Impatiently, he leaned forward. “He’s just sleeping.”

“Awesome,” Dean responded numbly, not really knowing what to say.

He suddenly realized how terribly tired he felt. He was soaked head to toe and shaking all over with cold, or maybe from relieved tension as well. He rubbed his eyes and stared at his boots, still half-filled with water. He hadn’t even noticed that before.

Sam got up and came up to him—on the other side to where Cas was lying—and sank on a flat stone nearby.

“Sorry I was late,” he said in a low voice. “The Colt…it took a while.”

Dean nodded. He knew Sam had done his best. “What about your arm?”

“Broken, I guess. But the other one is all right.”

“Good.”

They fell silent, looking at the Colorado river streaming down as they had known it. Nothing remained of its shattering rage anymore; no trace was left of Crowley’s spell. Apart from the crevice, still cluttered with the rock shards, the landscape was back to its natural state.

“I can’t believe what you did,” Sam said.

“Jumped down that cliff?” Dean asked, pretending he didn’t understand. “Yeah, I’m pretty shocked myself too.”

But Sam wasn’t easy to fool.

“You know what I mean.”

Dean pursed his lips. As he spoke again, he made sure not to meet Sam’s eye.

“He was dying, Sam. I watched him dying. I’d hate myself if I let it happen.”

Sam sighed. “Well…You’re right. At least now he seems to be fine.” He paused a little and frowned, “Angels don’t die, do they?”

“I totally hope they don’t,” Dean said, not ready to share how much he really hoped it to be true. He wiped his cheeks with the back of his palm. “Damn, I’m dripping…”

Sam shot him a meaningful look but said nothing.

“Do you think he’ll remember us?” he asked after a silence.

“I don’t know.”

Dean really didn’t know. When Cas had fallen, he didn’t keep any memories about being an angel, including the fact itself. The reverse could result in the same effect. Dean had no idea if that was about to happen when Cas woke up, he only felt it would take all his courage to face that. With Cas dying in his arms and everything having a duration of seconds, Dean simply had no time to think about consequences. It somehow felt easier then— unlike now. Of course, Dean didn’t regret anything, he knew he would do the same thing again and again if he had to. It hurt, _hurt like hell_ , but Cas was saved, and nothing else mattered.

Time was hanging so heavy that Dean almost missed the moment, and jumped in surprise when Cas stirred. He opened his eyes, looking around wildly.  

“Cas? Father Cas, you all right?”

Dean had the same question itching his tongue. That one and many others, but the more he gazed at Cas, the harder it seemed to speak again. His mouth went dry like a desert land, and his eyes were wet with tears. He failed to pull himself together.

It appeared however that Cas had other plans, rather than answering any questions. Slowly, he sat up, then glanced around. A tiny smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, the smile Dean remembered so well, but now it looked different—as did the face itself. The alteration felt rather vague—the features had not changed—and yet it was there, the angel’s ethereal expression showing through the human one.

For a minute or two, Cas observed himself in silence. Then frowned anxiously and before Sam and Dean could say a word more, he audibly flapped his invisible wings and disappeared.

“Oh my god,” Sam breathed out.

“No, an angel,” Dean muttered hoarsely. “And there’s your answer.”

But within an instant, Cas was back—standing on the same stone he’d just left. Impossibly, in a blink of an eye that he was away, his appearance had changed: his preacher’s clothes were now undamaged and clean of blood, his clerical collar shining white. Even his cheeks were shaven. He gazed at Sam and Dean with an innocent stare and smiled slightly.

“I apologize for my absence. There were certain adjustments to be made.” He gestured vaguely and looked up again. “Hello, Dean. Sam.”

Dean forced himself to meet his eye.

“We’ve met already,” he mumbled, his voice shaking miserably.

“I remember.” Cas descended from his stone and stopped in front of Dean. “I am very happy to see you, Dean.”

Dean bit his lip and looked away. It was Cas—and at the same time it wasn’t. Everything about him now felt different. The way he was staring, squinting his eyes,  even the voice he was speaking with, were distant and cold. Like someone else’s.

Cas brushed his fingers against his lips and turned to Sam. “You’re hurt.” He reached out to Sam’s forehead and touched it the same way Balthazar had done it to Dean. “Is it better now?”

Sam looked blankly at his broken forearm and cautiously stretched it out.

“Yeah, it’s…it’s fine now,” he said after a brief pause. “Thank you, father…Um, sorry. It’s not the right title anymore, is it?”

Cas held his gaze at Sam, clearly surprised.

“Why not? I like it.” He came to the water’s edge and stopped, eyeing the river, his hands in his pockets. “The mining camp is safe. The flood caused some minor damage to the first three tents on its way, but it did not reach the mines. Benny has everything under control.”

Dean realized that he’d nearly forgot about all that, with more important things happening. Apparently, Cas had a better memory.

“How do you know that?” Dean asked him.

“I have checked.” He didn’t elaborate how exactly he’d done it, and Dean chose not to ask. “However, Crowley is nowhere to be seen. I put out a search, but I must admit that the chances of finding him appear quite low. The trap won’t keep him long. That is why all the placards he had made with our faces now feature his own.”

“Oh,” Sam gasped. “That’s…that’s great.”

Cas nodded slowly. “The reward remains the same.”

With all the obvious importance of what he was saying, it was getting unbearable to listen anymore.

“All right,” Dean said, rising up. “That cliff doesn’t look like a stairway to heaven, so we’d better head up now.”

Cas turned to him. “You do not need to climb, Dean. I think I can help.” He came closer to them. “Join your hands and close your eyes.”

Reluctantly, they both did as asked, and Cas touched Sam and Dean’s foreheads again.

The next moment, all three of them were standing a few feet from their stage.

#

The stage was waiting for them where Meg had stopped it. Surprisingly, she had not left and was still sitting on the driver’s bench, studying her nails. At the sight of Cas approaching, she abruptly froze, her hands hanging in the air.

“You’ve changed, unicorn,” she said, staring at him like a rabbit to a snake.

“I won’t hurt you, Meg.”

“Now that you can see who I am, I wouldn’t take the risk.”

“Meg, no—”

But she was already walking away, beating the mud with her elegant shoes.

Sam excused himself to rush after her. Dean was sure the discussion Sam had in mind was as urgent as had been his errands in Salt Lake City. He was just letting them be alone.

It felt awkward and totally wrong to be standing with Cas like that, a foot away, with their backs leaning onto the stage wall. _Like strangers,_ Dean thought bitterly, _we are like strangers again._

“So…an angel, yeah?” he said, narrowing his eyes at the round stone that he kept kicking with the tip of his boot.

“Yes.”

There came another awkward pause.

“Aren’t they waiting for you…uh…upstairs?”

“They’ve been waiting for nearly thirty years, Dean. I believe they can wait a little more.”

“While what? You going on a round-the-world trip or something?”

“I don’t need to survey the world to find the best place in it,” Cas said. He turned his head slightly, his gaze shifting to the rocky shores of the Colorado river and then upwards, to pearl-white clouds and vibrant-blue skies, and then back to Dean. Cas stepped closer, his hands locking behind Dean’s back. “I know where it is. It’s next to you.”

Dean said nothing. He just stood staring at Cas, not believing—not daring to believe—what he had heard.

“You…so you really remember me? Like…all of it?”

Cas tilted his head aside, squinting. “But I told you that, didn’t I?”

Although feeling better now, _much better,_ Dean still hesitated a little. “Yeah, but—”

“But what?” Cas held his gaze at Dean’s lips for a moment, then went on, “Angel memory is a very special thing, Dean. It keeps all the facts and events of human history. Thousands of years, actually, since the day of Creation to the minutes of the present. This is virtually an incredible amount of information. So,” he paused a little and raised his eyebrows, “of course I had to prioritize.”

“And?”

“And you are on top of the list.”

Dean was so short of breath that it wasn’t until he gasped a few times that he was able to speak again.

“You sure?”

“Dean…” Cas bent his head low for a moment. “What’s the word…Oh, right. Shut up.”

And he closed Dean’s mouth with a long and endlessly tender kiss.

All doubts safely forgotten, Dean obeyed. He embraced Cas— _his Cas_ —back as tight as he could, and kissed him greedily and frantically, feeling him, inhaling his scent, so very familiar and loved. _Don’t you ever think about flying away from me,_ he thought, closing his eyes, _it’s no go, all right? Make sure you remember that, you feathery ass!_

He brushed his fingers against Cas’s rigid back in the light-brown coat, and ran them up to his shoulder-blades, wondering momentarily where his wings were hidden. Maybe someday, he would see them. There were many days ahead of them, and Dean was good at waiting.


	19. Epilogue

They entered the Upper Camp like ancient triumphators. The moment their stage wheeled into the clearing, it was immediately surrounded by cheering shouts, applause, and even gunshots. They’d never had a case ending like this, Sam thought. Usually, they would already be driving away at full speed.

It felt a bit awkward to receive all that praise. After all, without Benny and his men, there probably would be no victory over the _evil forces_ , as some of the miners called them. Dean did not seem to care. Beaming with pleasure, he accepted the greetings with Caesar’s air, nodding and smiling with weary importance.

Everything was now even more under control than father Cas had said. Crowley was gone; the last demons, trapped inside the mill, had mysteriously evaporated, following their defeated leader. Sam and Dean still searched the building, just to be on the safe side, but found nothing but the derelict sheriff’s star. By common agreement, Benny took over both the business and the star (and father Cas pinned it solemnly onto Benny’s jacket lapel).

They didn’t stay for the celebration dinner, though. Having exchanged looks with father Cas, Dean rejected the invitation in elegant terms that Sam never expected to find in his brother’s vocabulary. The only thing Dean let himself be tempted by was an apple pie from Benny’s wife. Watching him wrapping it, still warm and the aroma filling the air, Sam drew a relieved sigh—with whatever had happened to them, Dean held true to the core element of his identity.

They drove straight to father Cas’s cabin. Sharing the high stage seat with Meg, Sam looked at the peaceful sunlit landscape, so different to the one he remembered from the night ride they’d had after the hellhounds attack. It seemed hard to believe that all that was only ten days ago. It felt like weeks more.

And there was another thing that made Sam occasionally glance back at Dean’s elbow, carelessly sticking out of the stage window. Everyone was safe and healthy. With a job like theirs, it was an utterly rare achievement, but Sam did not mind. He just was wary about losing his vigilance. With Dean as he was, Sam had to think for them both.

Dean looked happy, and it wasn’t because of the case alone. That was a different happiness, a special one, simple and human. Sam had some ideas on the reason for it, of course. He guessed that with their doubtful luck, this _alliance_ would bring them problems, but so far he could not help being happy for Dean.

They reached the cabin in the early dusk. As Sam drove the stage to the back of the cabin, Dean jumped out to help him hobble the leading horses. Father Cas descended too and came to offer his hand to Meg.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she told him, crinkling her nose.

Father Cas only raised his eyebrow.

“Not at all. I know very well,” he said. “Please, Meg.”

“I’m a demon and you—”

“I am your friend,” father Cas said firmly. “Nothing has changed.”

She hesitated a moment more and then finally took his hand.

Watching them, Sam chuckled. Dean jerked his head up promptly.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s not that,” Sam shook his head. “Nothing’s funny. It’s just…You know, if you think who they really are…”

Dean tied the last knot and straightened his back. “She was driving our stage,” he said. “That's almost the same thing as being married.”

Sam laughed. “Then what’s flying with an angel?”

Dean just punched him on the shoulder and laughed too.

Together, they walked to the cabin.

Father Cas and Meg were already there, setting up the table in the middle of the room. There was nothing but the pie to serve, though. Sliced up, it took up most of the little surface. Dean sniffed and smiled.

“The best meal ever,” he murmured. “Dig in, Cas!”

Father Cas coughed in confusion. “Angels do not eat, Dean.”

“At all?!”

“At all. We…don’t need food.”

“That makes you perfect company at the table, huh?” Dean winked at him. “But I’ll tell you something. I know one special place, in the First State, and the snacks they cook over there will make you forget that you don’t eat.”

Now all of them were laughing. Even Meg had her mouth crooked in a smile that was probably her best attempt at having fun.

“What are you going to do, Meg?” Father Cas asked her when the communal laughter was over. “Will you stay here in San Juan?”

“Definitely not,” Meg said and brushed her fingers against her dress, “I’m more than done with the role of a saloon girl…I haven’t really thought about it yet. Maybe I’ll go down Los Angeles…” She side-glanced at father Cas as she added, “Just for the name.”

“And what you’re going to do there?” Dean asked, ignoring her insinuation.

Meg shrugged. “Maybe get a job…I always dreamed of being a nurse, and it seems to be in high demand now. Will you give me a reference, unicorn?”

Father Cas gave nodded with a serious look. “Of course.”

“Then I’m halfway there,” Meg said with a smile. Then she looked at Sam and Dean. “And what about you?”

Dean swallowed the piece he was chewing and leaned back in his chair. “Well…first we gotta take the silver home.”

The silver, twenty huge lumps of raw ore, mined from the Smoky Fire shaft, lay in the stage’s baggage compartment—a farewell gift from Benny and his men. Sam and Dean had tried to give him some money for it, but Benny refused it outright.

“And then?”

Dean was somewhat hesitant, so Sam answered for him.

“And then, we have some jobs to do.”

“Crowley won’t be easy to get to.”

“To hell with Crowley,” Dean said. “We gotta nail that bastard Alastair. The way that fake prophet wraps up his deals, by the end of the war there’s gonna be no one to celebrate the victory.” He cut off for a moment, then went on, avoiding Meg’s eye. “Is it true that he’s your father?”

Meg winced in disgust. “Oh no, he never was. He only used to be my teacher before he went mad. He fooled Crowley with that. Alastair doesn’t give a damn about me, and neither do I about him.”

That explained why Alastair hadn’t even tried to free Meg when she was a hostage. It just helped keep Crowley busy with his silver and suited Alastair perfectly. Apparently, the new enemy they were about to encounter was smarter and much more dangerous.

“So you have no idea where this son of a bitch could be?” Dean asked.

“Sorry.”

Sam nodded, trusting her answer. Meg had already helped them a lot—since the moment they’d left father Cas’s cabin and till that morning, when she’d picked Sam up in San Juan after he’d been fighting off demons with one arm. If not for her, he would never make it in time to that cliff, with or without the Colt. She would say if she knew.

Sam cleared his throat.

“Actually…” he paused, struggling to confess. “Uh…Dean, we might have a lead on him.”

Dean gave him a puzzled look.

“Come again.”

“I…I sent a telegram to dad. From Salt Lake, you remember? Their new office was amazing, very modern, and well set-up. So I…I telegraphed dad and Bobby too.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I was going to…Honestly, Dean, I was…I just had no chance.”

“In four days. All right.” Dean pursed his lips in discontent. Sam knew that look, and it meant that his brother was about three times angrier than he let show.

“Dean, I’m sorry, all right? I’d tell you straight away, if you weren’t so—”

Alarmed, Dean narrowed his eyes. “So—what?”

“So opposed to the telegraph!”

Dean blushed a little and turned away. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what he had feared to hear.

“Well, boys, I don’t want to interrupt your bickering,” Meg said them, getting up, “so I’ll go now. Take care and guard your angel. They’re vulnerable things.” She turned to father Cas and blew him a kiss. “Goodbye, Castiel. Call if you need me.”

“I will,” he promised. “I’ll see you off.”

As Meg and father Cas left the room, Dean followed them with a somewhat jealous stare.

“So what did you write there?” he asked, still keeping his gaze at the door.

“Where?”

“In that telegram.”

“Oh,” Sam smiled, “it was actually very short. It was a…uh…a coded message. Like I told you.”

“What message?”

“ _Timeo prophetam et dona ferentes_.”

Dean frowned. Dead languages had never been his strong suit.

“And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s Latin. A re-phrased line from _Aeneid_ , in fact. Means something like ‘beware the prophets bringing you gifts’.”

“It’s about that Trojan horse, right?”

“Exactly,” Sam said, genuinely surprised. “You know it?”

Dean waved him off, “Just the horse thing. Don’t smart-ass me.” He scraped the last drop of apple jam from the plate and licked his finger clean. “Well, maybe that was a good idea about the telegram.”

“Seriously? So you approve?”

“Don’t put on airs. We don’t know if dad and Bobby got it.”

“We’ll find out soon. I requested a reply to the Calville office, and that’s just forty miles from here.”

Just as they fell silent, father Cas came back in. Subtly confused, he looked at them in turn and announced, “Meg left.”

“At last,” Dean grumbled, rising from his chair. “Your goodbyes took a while.”

“She asked for a word of guidance,” father Cas protested, “and I provided it.” He came closer to the table and took a deep breath. “Dean, I need to tell you and Sam about Alastair. I didn’t remember it before, but now, I think I know a few things that might be helpful to you—”

“You’ll tell us as we drive,” Dean cut him off. “We’re leaving.”

Father Cas furrowed his eyebrows.

“Am I coming with you?”

Immediately, Dean stared back at him. “Are you not?”

They were standing opposite one another, pretty much like they had been on that first day. And something told Sam that it wasn’t the last time he would see them like that either.

“I wasn’t sure if this was appropriate,” Cas said finally. “But if you think so…”

“We do,” Dean responded. “Don’t we, Sam?”

“By all means.”

Cas nodded and glanced down at himself. “Do you think it’s all right for me to keep this outfit?” he asked.

“As long as you’re comfortable in it,” Dean said, smiling. “‘Cause this is the best disguise for you that I can ever think of.” He turned, and the Colt in his thigh holster swayed proudly. “So you all right to leave now?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Then let’s hit the road. Alastair won’t wait.”

Dean left the cabin first, whistling something, walking with the sure step of a man knowing what he was doing and fearing no evil on his path. _With a real angel on board_ , Sam thought, _he has every reason to be confident_. However, Sam had to admit, he did not mind the company.

They followed Dean after a moment. At the doorstep, Sam paused to look back—at books piled on a short bed, shelves with healing herbs, mixed cutlery. All the things that father Cas had used here over those years were left in their places.

“Aren’t you taking any of this stuff?”

“No, Sam,” Cas said, shaking his head. “Everything I need is with me.” And suddenly, he gave Sam a tiny smile, “But I would appreciate it if we stopped at my fort to check on the bees and…and maybe get some honey for Dean. He told me that he liked it.”

Of course, it was just for Dean’s passion for sweet things, and of course, there was no doubt that the abandoned Mormon house with its separate rooms had absolutely nothing to do with it. Of course.

Sam managed not to break into a laugh and, looking Cas in the eye, gave his answer in a flat voice, with all solemnity.

“You have my word.”


	20. Endnotes (not a chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All images below are from free sources on the internet and are given for reference only.

This story was a great fun to write!

The idea of placing the leading trio into the 19th-century timeline came from episode 6.18 Frontierland, which I absolutely loved, and the show trivia saying Eric Kripke and his team had been thinking of a Western spin-off. (The ‘western-slash-romance’ definition, presented to us by Mr. Jensen Ackles, came on air much later.)

This was a basic starting point, but to be completely honest, there was one more reason. Dean was so happy in his dream world of Clint Eastwood movies, with all its attributes and style. While thinking how much he deserves more of that happiness, I wondered what the brothers' hunting life would look like if they weren't there for a day but would live there, in the 1860-s, with horses, hats, striped serapes, and everything.

Within a few minutes (or maybe less), two 19th-century hunters were driving a black stagecoach, and one weird preacher was waiting to meet them somewhere in a small Old West town. And as there had to be a villain (no Western can do without a villain), there came sheriff Crowley, nicknamed Black Fergus.

And then, curious coincidences began to appear.

I wanted this to be a case fic, something similar to the show, so first of all, I needed a case. I started googling, and quite soon, I found a terrific website—[Legends of America](http://www.legendsofamerica.com/)—and in its 'Old West' section, there was one specific legend that caught my eye: [Hell Dogs of Eldorado Canyon](http://www.legendsofamerica.com/nv-eldorado4.html). A campfire by the mines, two brothers, hellhounds—the picture was too vivid to be missed.

The location and the monster Dean was about to meet (I am sorry, Dean, but you had no chance to escape this.) San Juan, the town of the main action, was found in the list of Nevada ghost cities, and it looked something like this:

Encouraged, I went on. For the setting research, I browsed a lot of stuff, but it wasn't until I read Mark Twain's _Roughing It_ that I got everything I needed. (It's an amazing book, btw, hilarious and interesting, so I highly recommend everyone to read it.) Mark Twain was traveling across America somewhat later, but everything he'd seen on his way, turned out to be very helpful.

Apart from the facts and details of the Old West's everyday life and silver mining in Nevada that I deliberately looked for in this book, pretty unexpectedly, I found a retrospective plot line for Castiel. _Destroying Angels_ (Angels! Warriors! Badass!) were just mentioned there, but it gave me a strong clue on where to go.

Around that time, my friend asked me what Cas looked like in this story. To give her a rough idea, I googled an 'Old West preacher'. And Google showed me…yes, Clint Eastwood in his _Pale Rider_ :

  
Clint Eastwood as The Preacher, Pale Rider, 1985 

My friend and I looked at each other and said together, 'Dean would like that.'

That's basically how Cas became a Mormon outcast.

As religion is such a delicate matter, I tried to keep it as distant as possible. I only borrowed one episode from the history of the Old West Mormons, the [Mountain Meadows massacre](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mountain_Meadows_massacre). The 'Indian raid' as Castiel described it, was somewhat collated of many similar episodes that had really taken place throughout 1857-61. This kind of brutal violence was outrageous even then, when a human life was barely worth a dime. I thought that both as a human and a fallen angel, Cas would not stand that, no matter what consequences for him would be.

Later on, there appeared other historical details (like Transcontinental Telegraph that made the characters stay in Salt Lake City one day longer and meet Ishim):

  
Transcontinental Telegraph office in Great Salt Lake City, October 1861 

…and the Civil War events (like the battle at the Missouri river). These were found in another book, _The Civil War State by State_ by Chester G. Hearn.

For the characters, I only picked those few who would fit the era. Like Benny Lafitte, looking somewhat timeless even in the show. John Winchester, Bobby Singer, and Samuel Colt have no screen time, but they seem to fit properly too.

Meg Masters felt more or less matching as well, and besides that, I just wanted to have her one-sided background relationship with Cas. Their story in the show was very touching and a little sad, and I could not help myself borrowing it.

With the angels—Zachariah, Ishim, Virgil—it was even easier. At that time, the Mormons dressed and behaved differently, so as fallen angels, they could look the same, and no one would be surprised.

Supernatural Wiki was a great help on the angel lore, by the way. Zachariah as the lord of the memories and Virgil as a guardian of the arms were a perfect fit. Having canon Anna as a reference, I took some liberty in this whole case with fallen angels, their lost memories and grace restoring, but I hope it worked out logically. Also, there was no reference that the grace could heal a dying angel, but there was no reference to the opposite as well, so I just told myself that it was possible. 

As for Balthazar—he just rushed into the story without any compelling reason, pretty much the same as he did in the fic, not asking anyone if he was welcome. But Balthazar is such an amazing character (I truly miss him in the show), so of course, he was let to stay, even for one chapter, with all his French style and the platypuses. (Hello, Kevin Smith's _Dogma_.)

The demons' conflict and the dotted outline of the fake prophet story was another work of imagination. In the show, Crowley did not compete with Alastair directly, but with his perpetual game of thrones, I figured that he could well do.

And that's about it with the story in general.

**Some notes on the facts and names mentioned:**

_Robert Leroy Parker and Harry Longbaugh_ —The fake names Dean and Sam use, are in fact the real names of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, two dramatically famous outlaws from the Old West. This is a bit inaccurate though, as, in fact, these people lived later than the years this story is set in. I just liked the idea of making this small (or not so small) reference to my two favorite movies with Paul Newman and Robert Redford (‘The Sting’ and ‘Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid’). The poker game comes from there as well, by the way, so it’s deliberately quite recognizable. The title of this chapter is also from one of ‘The Sting’ subtitles.

 _Nevada as a hideaway place for the Civil War deserters_ —It really was like that. Back in 1861, the Nevada Territory wasn’t even a state yet (it only became such in 1865), and its distant location served perfectly to those not willing to join the troops of either side or, rather, get killed in action. Mark Twain, the famous journalist and writer, was one of those fugitives; he’d left for Nevada together with his older brother, and returned only seven years later, having made multiple journeys around the world, and when the Civil war had been long over.

 _The Lawrence raid and the Free-State Hotel_ —This is an absolutely true story, that is considered a part of pre-War violence, that entered the history as ‘Bleeding Kansas days’. That’s what _The Civil War State by State_ says about this: ‘The town of Lawrence was attacked on May 21, 1856, by a pro-slavery posse led by Sheriff Samuel J. Jones, who destroyed a few buildings and burnt down the Free-State Hotel. In response, John Brown launched the nearby Pottawatomie Massacre on the night of May 24th, during which five pro-Southern sympathizers (three of them known as slave catchers) were murdered in cold blood.’ The fact of fire in Lawrence and the limited freedom women had at these times, brought up an idea of making Mary Winchester the unfortunate hostess of the hotel and a victim of the fire.

 _Mormon mission in Las Vegas_ —This first Mormon settlement in Las Vegas Valley existed in 1855-1857 and served as a midpoint way station on the Mormon road. It is still [here](http://friendsofthefort.org/), open for visits and featuring authentic buildings and household items.

  
Old Mormon fort in Las Vegas

 _Destroying Angels_ —The Mormon community used to have its own small army or rather a garrison of well-armed men serving two purposes: protection from outsiders (‘gentiles’, as the Mormons called them) and punishment of disobedient insiders. This garrison was called Destroying Angels (or, as some sources refer to them, Avenging Angels). Curiously, there is even a song of the same title, [Avenging Angels](http://spacetheband.com/lyrics/avenging-angels) by _Space_. Whatever the true inspiration for the author of the lyrics was, there might be a chance that history had a finger in the pie.

 _Nebraska vs. Wyoming_ —It turned out that the show script wasn’t entirely accurate. Sunrise, WY, the _Frontierland_ episode's location, didn’t even exist in March 1861. It was built by the _Colorado Fuel and Iron compan_ y thirty-seven years later, in 1898, as a hometown for local workers. In reality, Samuel Colt lived in a place within former Nebraska state borders (being quite impressive in length then). In the fall of 1861, he moved to Connecticut where he died a few months later, in January 1862.

 _Scott and Lane_ —In this story, for the absence of rock bands, Sam and Dean are using the names of the known military officers. James Henry Lane (1814-66) was a senator for Kansas, supporting President Lincoln, and took part in several battles. James G. Blunt (1826-81), an ally of Lane and abolitionist John Brown, during the Civil War was commanding Kansas troops as a major general, and later resumed his study of law and medicine.

 _Terry and Totten_ —Alfred Terry and Joseph Totten were the army generals from Connecticut. Joseph Gilbert Totten (1788-1864) graduated from West Point as an engineer and served as a chief engineer during Mexican War. He was considered one of the best engineers of his era and achieved the rank of brigadier general and later was promoted to a major general. He died in Washington, D.C. Alfred Howe Terry (1827-90) went to Yale law school, and when the War broke out, he raised the 2nd and later the 7th Connecticut regiment. After the war, he became a major general in the Regular Army. (And yes, I could not miss this engineer-lawyer resemblance.)

 _Silver mining in Nevada_ —‘Prospecting and mining in the El Dorado Canyon, in what was then western New Mexico Territory (present-day Nevada), had been going on from at least 1857 if not earlier. But in April 1861, as the American Civil War began, word got out that silver and some gold lodes had been discovered by John Moss and others in El Dorado Canyon.’ The Eldorado Canyon was one of the first mining sites discovered in this area; later the miners moved further to the west, to Carson County, settling in Virginia City and near the Lake Washoe.

  
Silver mine

 _Astor Library_ —The public library that Castiel visited in New York, actually was one of the first US libraries. It was built in the East Village according to the will of John Jacob Astor. The library created was a free reference library; its books were not permitted to circulate.

**And a few brief notes about the some chapter titles.**

_Hello Stranger_ —a rough reference to Supertramp’s _Goodbye Stranger_

 _Moving On_ —a song by Mick Ralphs, performed by Bad Company in 1974

 _Close Encounters_ —is a reference to a Steven Spielberg's film _Close Encounters of the Third Kind_ , 1977

 _Brothers and Arms_ —is rephrased _Brothers in Arms_ , a song by the British rock band Dire Straits, released on 13 May 1985

 _Voices in the sky_ —is a hit 1968 single by the progressive rock band The Moody Blues, written by their lead guitarist Justin Hayward

 _A Gallant Knight_ —is a line from a very beautiful poem [Eldorado](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48634/eldorado-56d22a0920778) by Edgar A. Poe.

 _Double Back_ —is a song by ZZ Top from their album _Recycler_ , which was featured in the film Back to the Future Part III.

 _The Angel of the Odd_ —is also Poe’s [short story](http://poestories.com/read/angeloftheodd) about a man who did not believe angels were real, and a very extravagant Angel that came to prove otherwise.

 _A man on a Silver Mountain_ —is the first single by Rainbow's Ritchie Blackmore and the first track of their debut album, Ritchie Blackmore's Rainbow, released in 1975.


End file.
